


Feral and Stray

by littlelamblittlelamb



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Australian 1950s AU, Discussion of Abortion, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fisting, For Further Tags See Notes, Gay Bashing, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Object Penetration, Obsessive/Possessive!Achilles, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Assault, Toxic Relationship, Underage for half a second?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelamblittlelamb/pseuds/littlelamblittlelamb
Summary: Achilles is the bastard son of a wealthy landowning farming family in rural Australia. Quick witted, savage and charming, Achilles has the world at his feet and half a mind to burn it down.At twelve, a distant country cousin comes to stay with him - kind, patient Patroclus. Privately tutored together for years, an attraction sparks, but the more Achilles presses Patroclus to admit his feelings, the more he wriggles out of it. Achilles tells himself it's fine; he doesn't mind watching Patroclus squirm.--1950s Australia AU.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Hector/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 287
Kudos: 297





	1. The Last Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Big time warnings for this fic! You've read the tags, you've read the summary - there is huge dubcon/noncon in this fic.
> 
> This is probably the darkest fic I've written. Achilles is incredibly toxic in this fic, and he does irredeemable things. And he has reasons, but they aren't good ones. You've been warned.

They let Patroclus wash up before they hauled him in into the dining room – let him scrub the dirt from his nails, his face till it burned, let him change into his other pair of clothes. Let him cry alone before the greatest humiliation of all was to take place. Why had he allowed this to happen to himself? On some level he _had_ allowed it. He could have fought Achilles off better than he had. Definitely he could have, but Achilles had been right.

 _Keep wriggling and the both of us are going to hurt,_ Achilles had hissed as they struggled on the prickly, dry back paddock. _And I’ll win just the same, but I’ll have a cut lip and you'll have a broken nose and it'll take me longer to get off if your pretty face gets ruined. I'd hate to do that. I really would._

But he hadn’t been swinging, had he? Patroclus had squirmed, yes. He had pushed back a little, but even without getting them both hurt, he could have bucked Achilles long enough to make a break for it – Achilles wasn’t much bigger than him, and Patroclus was a decent sprinter, and close enough to the house Achilles wouldn't have been game to try anything. But Patroclus hadn’t done that.

He had been curious about Achilles’s cock, was one thing. He had never seen it hard, but over the years he had imagined what it might be for Achilles to have sex with him, whatever that would entail. When Achilles had pulled his dick out over him as he lay on his back, shoulders pinned down by Achilles’s knees, Patroclus had thought he would make him suck it, maybe, and he would have. Even though Achilles was being cruel, he would have sucked him.

“You’re crazy,” Patroclus whispered to himself. “You’re crazier than he is.”

They were friends, was the craziest thing of all – blood brothers, cousins of a sort. They took lessons together with Chiron in the main house, and Achilles pushed him around, sure, but periodically he had peculiar outbursts which by right should have ended their friendship many times over, but never seemed to.

And now Achilles had stroked himself to completion on his face, and Chiron, their tutor, had found him covered in Achilles’s seed and his own tears, and Patroclus had already forgiven him.

“Crazy.”

There was something ominous about it – a ‘conversation’ was what Chiron had said they needed, between himself, Mr Pelides and Achilles, and Patroclus couldn’t imagine how they would talk about a thing like this – something so strange and shameful. Patroclus was certain the words would desert him. Pulling on his clean clothes, thoughts of running away and sparing them all this conversation flooded his brain, and it was dizzying.

“What should I do?” he asked the Achilles in his mind, but he only laughed.

_You might have run before. You would flee a conversation, but not my cock?_

* * *

Mr Pelides, an old man of about sixty a with sandy beard and weather-beaten, leathery skin, hardly resembled his wealth. Beside him, Mr Chiron looked the more cultivated and distinguished, but the Pelides name was one of breeding, wealth and land, all of which mattered rather more than appearances.

Patroclus, who was no longer able to claim any heritage, found it fascinating to find in Achilles evidence of his parents. Achilles shared his father’s colouring – all gold skin and blonde hair and jade green eyes, but there was something pretty about Achilles – refined, delicate – where Peleus Pelides had, even in his prime, only ever been a rugged, charming sort of handsome. That something, Patroclus knew, was from his mother – the mysterious English brunette who Patroclus had only ever seen in pictures, and had only once since Patroclus entered Mr Pelides’s care visited Achilles in Australia.

 _We went to the beach_ , Achilles had recalled of their time spent in Melbourne, opposed to the backwater towns surrounding Phthia. _We saw some shows, watched some of the Olympics. Shopped. Rich people things. Bloody boring, for the most part._

But Achilles grew wistful after the visit, and when she phoned him periodically Achilles would speak to her in a low, conspiring voice. Looking at pictures of her, Patroclus couldn’t help but imagine there was a kinship there, and just as Achilles did not completely resemble his father, Patroclus imagined the quirks of his person which set him apart from Mr Pelides were mimicked on the other side of the world exactly; just as his smile matched hers precisely, perhaps mother and son smiled for the same reasons.

But the way Achilles smiled in the dining room was not a smile at all, and it made Patroclus want to apologise for all the fuss. Mr Pelides, Chiron, Achilles – all of them his superiors, his betters – bothered over him and something he allowed to happen.

“You don’t look well, Patroclus,” Achilles drawled, breaking the stern silence which had coated the room. “Something happen?”

“No,” Patroclus said hurriedly.

“That’s enough, Pelides,” Chiron snapped at Achilles, then, more gently to Patroclus, “I was explaining to Mr Pelides what I’d seen on the paddocks.”

“It was nothing, really,” Patroclus said quietly.

“Bambi,” Mr Pelides began, “I’m taking this very seriously. Mr Chiron told me the state he found you in. If my boy did that – well, I’d want to know.”

Patroclus felt the collective gaze of the room fall upon him, and a shudder ran up his spine.

“I’m fine,” he said blandly.

“Did Achilles do those things?”

It felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room. “No,” he whispered.

“Peleus, I know what I saw,” Chiron cut in tersely, and Mr Pelides gave a sharp nod.

“Perhaps it’s best Bambi just rest up,” Mr Pelides supplied, but something in Achilles’s expression caught Patroclus’s eye.

“If it wasn’t me, who was it, Pat?” Achilles asked slowly. That expression – Patroclus could only think of it as being akin to a childlike wonder. “Who did those awful things to you?”

“No one,” Patroclus said miserably, at the same time as Chiron hissed, “You can shut it, Pelides.”

But Achilles only grinned. “Did you do it to yourself? Or did some terrible stranger come by? A farmhand? Not Johnny, was it?”

“Patroclus, I think you should retire to your room,” Chiron ordered.

“Throw your old clothes out – the dirty ones. Take anything you like from Achilles’s wardrobe,” Mr Pelides said, not unkindly. As Patroclus left the room, he heard one final exchange. “You’re certain what you saw?”

“Without a doubt,” Chiron responded. “I can’t tell you why he’s protecting him.”

* * *

After a solid lecture about friendship and sex and deviancy and morals and _thank God I never set you upon an English boarding school,_ somewhat impotently followed with, _Boys this age, though, Chiron – you know how they can be_ , Achilles ambled to his room to find Patroclus sitting on his bed, gazing blankly into nothing. Paralysed, distant. Confused. But Achilles felt a strange sort of clarity.

“You protected me,” Achilles said, his smile crazed. Patroclus on _his_ bed. What a sight.

“Did they punish you?” Patroclus asked quietly, unable to look at him. Achilles threw back his head and laughed.

_Expect your chores to double._

_You can bet there’ll be extra readings._

_Count yourself lucky he has no parents, otherwise we’d really be in it._

“Pat, they _knew_ it was me. Mr Chiron saw me walking back from the paddocks, then he saw you. Even if he wasn’t a genius, he could put that together well enough. But you…” At this, Achilles’s eyes filled with wonder. “Christ. You actually love me, don’t you?”

“Please. Isn’t it enough that I…?” Patroclus’s fists clenched over his knees, head bent. Achilles imagined he was fighting back tears. There were tears inside of Patroclus, and he sometimes imagined he could wring them all out.

“No. What wouldn’t you let me do to you?” Achilles crouched in front of Patroclus and stared unblinkingly into his eyes. “Say you love me, Pat.” Patroclus shook his head. “I’ll fuck you. I know you want me to – I’ve known for a while. If you admit it, I’ll fuck you, here in my bed.”

Patroclus’s cheeks coloured red and he hid his face in his hands. “Please, Achilles.”

“Please fuck me?”

“Please don’t do this.”

Achilles’s face darkened and he grabbed Patroclus’s knee and stood up again. “I suppose you’d let anyone fuck you. You act sweet – little doe-eyed Bambi for Christ’s sake – and you’re imagining yourself plugged up by their cocks. That what you think? Think if you’re nice, they’ll fuck you? It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d tried it on with the livestock.”

“Achilles!” Patroclus choked, and something in Achilles evaporated, the way it did in the end.

“Right. A bit far.” Where Achilles had grinned madly before, he smiled a little meekly. “Father offered you some of my clothes. He forgets to buy you clothes at the best of times – you really only had the two sets. He’s not being a bastard on purpose, but he’s got no mind for being considerate. Take anything of mine you want.”

“I’m fine, Achilles,” Patroclus mumbled, but once again Achilles was his friend. His very best and only friend in the world.

“I’ll pick some things, and you tell me if they need altering.” Achilles plucked two pairs of trousers and three shirts from his wardrobe and placed them on Patroclus’s lap. “They’re punishing me, but not nearly so much as I deserve.”

“Why?” Patroclus asked. “Why do it?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Achilles admitted. It was peculiar – there was not a trace of shame in Achilles, but neither did he seem proud of himself. “I mean it, though. If you could say you loved me, I would make it good. I’d give you what you want.”

“You’re a bastard, Achilles.”

And Patroclus left, and Achilles settled himself down in his favourite spot, by the hole in the wall.

* * *

The Pelides house was one envisioned for entertaining great families gone to waste on a bachelor. Two storeys of meticulous brickwork housed six bedrooms, two dining rooms, a library and a music room. It was too much, for just four men.

When Patroclus had arrived at Achilles’s home at twelve, Achilles had not scrutinised his father’s decision to allocate Patroclus to the room farthest from his own. They were still on the same floor, and they spent most of their evenings together reading in Achilles’s room anyway.

Achilles had only had Patroclus moved to the room next to his when they were fifteen after a chance encounter in the forest by the main house. Achilles went looking for him before dinner, and had heard his playmate whimpering up ahead on the trail. For a moment Achilles had thought him wounded, bitten by a snake or fallen on the path. There _were_ snakes in these parts, after all, and Achilles had seen Patroclus’s response to them; abject fear and total paralysis.

 _It’s good to keep still a little,_ Achilles once assured Patroclus, after they had stumbled across a Brown Snake in the mountains, _but still back off. Slowly, cautiously._

 _Right_ , Patroclus had breathed.

Achilles had felt a little chuffed, of course. He had kept calm, tugged Patroclus’s shirt sleeve gently to bring him backwards, and Patroclus had admired him for it.

But then, hearing Patroclus in pain – perhaps he hadn’t been such a good teacher at all; Patroclus might have frozen, forgotten to back away again. Achilles had felt panicked, his whole body charged with fear, and he had clamoured toward the sound. And there Patroclus had been, stroking his cock, eyes scrunched shut, trembling against the smooth white flesh of a gumtree.

 _Achilles_ … he had whispered, and Achilles wondered perhaps if he had been seen. But no. No, Patroclus was imagining… _Achilles, please. Please, please, please_.

It had been food for thought – that Patroclus imagined him and not Chiron or Johnny or a girl. If Patroclus did this alone out bush, was it not likely that he was doing this up in his room in the house? Possibly every night. The thought had made Achilles’s heart thrill – that maybe Patroclus was getting off whispering his name _every night_. So later that week he had drilled a hole in the wall between his room and the vacant guest room, and made Patroclus move in.

Over the years, Achilles had watched Patroclus grow bold; he began to penetrate himself with household items – carrots, cucumbers, tools, pens. Achilles remembered one particular lesson with Chiron, the morning after Patroclus had pushed a turquoise fountain pen inside himself.

 _I need to borrow your pen,_ Achilles had said, and he would never forget Patroclus’s expression of dread.

 _I might have another in my room_.

 _Good. You can use that one, and I’ll use this_. Achilles snatched the turquoise pen from in front of Patroclus and grinned. Later in the lesson, when he was sure Patroclus was watching, he sucked the end of the pen and saw how Patroclus’s eyes widened with horror.

 _What, Pat?_ he had asked lazily.

 _Nothing_.

Now, in his room as Achilles watched, Patroclus slumped onto his bed. “’chilles, ‘chilles, ‘chilles,” he repeated like a spell. He ran trembling fingers over his jaw, traced his lips. “Love you, Achilles.” Achilles froze and held his breath as Patroclus turned to his bedside table and plucked out his jar of oil and the empty glass soft drink bottle he had taken to inserting inside himself in recent months. “You promised. You promised, if I… Please.”

And so the ritual began. The bed was positioned against the wall opposite Achilles’s peephole, which gave Achilles an exquisite view of Patroclus’s hungry arse as he began to open himself up with his long, thin fingers. Patroclus was impatient, though. Always had been. Whatever he used to fill himself up, he never prepped long enough, and he looked pained as he would force it up his passage. After three fingers, he slicked up the base of the bottle and positioned it against his entrance, wincing in anticipation as be nudged it against his rim.

“I love you,” Patroclus whimpered, and an inch of the bottle made it inside of him before he gasped and held still a while. “I can take it. I’m good for you, I’ll be good for you.” Another inch, and Patroclus took his cock in one hand, the neck of the bottle in the other, and moved rhythmically, a dance of rutting and clenching and stroking as he unravelled. Achilles found himself wishing that someday, Patroclus’s arse would swallow the neck of the bottle and it would be stuck. Too embarrassed to speak to a real adult, Patroclus would have to come to him, and he would loosen him up, get it out, and already stretched out, grateful and relieved and ready for him, he would bend Patroclus over his bed and fuck him.

But Patroclus was too careful, and the neck had never slipped even halfway in.

* * *

When Mr Chiron had arrived with a timid, twelve year old Patroclus six years prior, Mr Pelides had converted the library into a suitable room for lessons – a great blackboard stood at the front of the room, and Achilles and Patroclus shared one enormous desk. When they were thirteen, Achilles had carved his initials under the table with a protractor – AP. He had coaxed Patroclus under the desk and insisted he carve his initials too. Patroclus had refused.

 _Well, I’ll do it for you,_ Achilles decided, and before Patroclus had been able to protest, he carved a ‘P’ into the belly of the desk – then stopped, embarrassed. _What name do you take as your surname?_

Sweet, timid, twelve year old Patroclus had been disowned by a distant country cousin and left for dead.

_I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m allowed my old one._

_Then be Pelides,_ Achilles had decided, and he completed the carving before Patroclus could interject. AP and PP. Patroclus Pelides. Patroclus had blushed, even then, and Achilles had often caught sight of his friend’s fingers tracing the shape of the indentation beneath his table, as he did now.

“Have you boys read about the Id, the Ego and the Super Ego?” asked Mr Chiron.

Achilles frowned, flicked back through the previous week’s notes and Patroclus’s fingers idled. “Was it in our required reading?”

“No, but Freud worms his way into literary analysis, I find. The Ego – this should be fairly self-explanatory.” Chiron scrawled ‘Ego’ on the black board, and Patroclus raised his hand.

“The self,” he said softly. He hesitated, as he often did when he had an answer and Achilles did not, but continued after clearing his throat. “The Ego is what we show to the world. A balance of and reaction to the real world, the Id and the Super Ego.”

“Ah.” A smile crossed Chiron’s face. “Then what are the Id and Super Ego?”

“The Super Ego is the conscious aspiration to perfection, to have control. Some might think of it as a conscience. The Id…” Another hesitation. “The Id is our base unconscious. It seeks pleasure – sexual or… Freud later said bloodshed and violence were of the Id also.”

“That’s good. There’s a lot about the subconscious and conscious, but it’s being used in literary analysis, so I thought you might benefit from the basics. Think of what drives characters – their Id? Their Super Ego?”

“Do you suppose Patroclus is my Super Ego?” Achilles asked.

“I don’t strictly subscribe to Freud, but I have no doubt that in everyone is depravity, as well as a best version.” Chiron was good at giving answers like that – answers that weren’t answers at all. Achilles smirked – Chiron thought he was a little shit, a smartarse, but he was awful good at not saying it aloud.

Chiron had offered to tutor Patroclus separately, after The Incident on the back paddock – he had offered Achilles’s father (who had laughed it off), and later Patroclus himself.

 _It’s no bother. Nothing happened – really,_ Patroclus had assured Mr Chiron, unable to look him in the eye.

 _I forgive you lying because I know it is a difficult thing to admit,_ Chiron had sighed. _Pelides will get away with a lot because of who he is. He needn’t get away with this._

As if he hadn’t gotten away with it already. Achilles had been given a heartier portion of work to do around the farm after The Incident, but his father paid him to do it ( _Money to take up to Oxford, ay?_ ). Mr Chiron had offered to tutor Patroclus separately to protect Patroclus, but also to punish Achilles.

And Patroclus had refused, like the saint he was.

“Were you teasing, when you said I was your Super Ego?” Patroclus asked as they packed up after their lesson.

Achilles shrugged carelessly. “No.”

“You wouldn’t want to be like me. Not… I’m not talking about my circumstances,” Patroclus clarified hurriedly. “I mean… I think you’re a better person.”

Achilles barked a laugh and slouched back on his chair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Achilles couldn’t imagine being pinned down by someone and having them paint his face with their seed. Achilles couldn’t imagine having to see that person every day – _choosing_ to see them, even having been given the option not to. It took divine forgiveness, impossible patience… Or extraordinary weakness.

“Do you think I am good, even after what I did to you?” Achilles asked flatly.

Patroclus visibly tensed. “I don’t know.” Patroclus relaxed a little and paused his ministrations to scrutinise his own assault. “Funny – I didn’t even factor it into the equation. It wasn’t you, but it was entirely you, I suppose.”

“My Id, perhaps,” Achilles murmured.

Patroclus smiled a little. “I suppose so.” Patroclus picked up his books and paused by Achilles. “Don’t play at being a devil, Achilles. I know you better than that.”

Achilles swallowed, and reached out to clutch Patroclus’s right hand. Patroclus rolled his eyes and adjusted his grip on his books so as to surrender the hand to Achilles. Achilles ran his thumb over Patroclus’s light brown skin and over the healed cut along his palm.

“It’s still there. That was the point, wasn’t it?” Patroclus says with a note of amusement.

“I… I am sorry,” Achilles mumbled to Patroclus’s hand. “About the other day. What I said in my room about –”

“I know,” Patroclus said quickly, retracting his hand from Achilles’s grip. “You were only making fun. It’s alright.”

 _Tell me you love me, and I won’t fuck you. Not if you don’t want – not right away. If you told me you loved me, I would say it back without hesitation,_ Achilles said, with all the courage a man can muster in the inconsequential recesses of his mind.

Achilles watched in silence as Patroclus walked away.

* * *

A secondary benefit of having Patroclus in the next room was that Achilles sometimes heard him during his nightmares. Patroclus had a lot of them – about the boy he had killed on his family’s farm. It had taken almost a year for Patroclus to tell him that, and Achilles had not once abused this sacred knowledge.

Every so often, Patroclus woke, crying out into the night.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean…”

And Achilles would come running, always generous with his touch, gentle with his words, and the apologies would begin anew.

“Sorry, ‘chilles. Shit, sorry. Sorry. You don’t have to come, I’m okay.”

But Achilles would never stop running to him – and besides, he was selfish in this, as in everything else. Just as the knowledge of Patroclus’s past mistake was sacred and beyond teasing, so was the task of comforting him – the innocence of their touches, the sensation of Patroclus clinging to him, shuddering. Achilles craved it, this thing only he could share with him.

These nights also helped Achilles understand Patroclus a little better – he found himself able to ask things he couldn’t in the waking hours, and Patroclus would answer him.

 _Did someone used to hurt you?_ Achilles had once whispered into the darkness.

There was something in the way he cried out sometimes to suggest he wasn’t reliving the incident with the boy, but his own pain.

 _Yeah_ , Patroclus had whispered.

 _You dad?_ Achilles guessed.

 _Yeah_ , Patroclus said shakily. _Don’t mention it to Mr Pelides. If he doesn’t know – I don’t want him to think I’ve got more issues than he already does_.

 _Okay. That’s alright, Patroclus. No one will hurt you again_.

 _Except you_ , Patroclus had laughed, and Achilles had jolted.

_When I – I would never, I wouldn’t –_

_I know. We’re only playing_ , Patroclus had assured him.

 _If I ever give you nightmares, frighten you – tell me. I know I go too far sometimes_.

Suddenly their intimacy became alien. Patroclus pulled away from Achilles’s embrace and smiled tightly.

_My dreams of you have never been bad ones._

* * *

For his eighteenth birthday, Achilles Pelides received a motorcycle to ride around the farm, and a Regula camera.

“Christ almighty,” Patroclus said, as Pelides revealed the navy Indian on the front porch.

“No side car. Sorry, Pat,” Achilles quipped, smirking at the bike. “I’ll let you ride on the back, maybe.”

“Yeah, right,” Patroclus scoffed, and Achilles felt something in himself give way. Patroclus got clothes for his birthdays, and was always grateful, but a part of him had to feel the injustice of watching his foster brother nonchalantly wake up to a motorcycle on the porch.

“You can ride her too,” Achilles said more quietly.

“It’s mostly for around the farm,” Mr Pelides put in. “You’ll be in the colleges wherever you go, and if that’s in England, or even Melbourne, a bike might be too much. Maybe one without a motor, eh?”

“Perhaps I’ll ride it while you’re away, then,” Patroclus said hollowly.

Achilles rounded on Patroclus. It wasn’t a conversation they had had, but Achilles had long since decided that Patroclus – who was good and longed to do good – would be for a big city university to become a doctor. “You’ll be at uni too. Won’t you?”

“I might work the farm full time until I can afford to study,” Patroclus mumbled hastily, before shaking his head. “’chilles, it’s your birthday. Take your bike for a spin.”

Achilles nodded dully. “I’ll talk to Father,” he muttered under his breath, before smiling his showman’s smile and climbing onto his present.

* * *

Of the two gifts, it was the Regula that would prove the more intriguing. The bike was its own sort of amusement, and afternoons were spent teaching Patroclus to ride over the dusty roads of Phthia (though Achilles was not terribly experienced himself), but the camera went with them everywhere – on their walks, on their tour of the University of Melbourne. But mostly Achilles photographed Patroclus, who was a reluctant, though generally oblivious study.

“It’s a waste of film,” Patroclus would scold him. Achilles often took pictures at odd times – breakfast, or while Patroclus laced up his boots on the veranda.

“I have to remember you somehow. I might be off at Oxford in a few months.”

And Patroclus, who saw the thought sat poorly with Achilles, would offer a grin, “As if a joint like that would take colonial scum like you.”

But nothing comforted Achilles in these weeks. He made Patroclus put in applications to medical schools, whilst he himself put in for Melbourne and Sydney law schools – _Patroclus Pelides. The name should have some sway_.

“Achilles, even if I get accepted, I can’t afford to go,” Patroclus insisted wearily. “And that’s not me asking for money. That’s me stating fact.”

“There are scholarships,” Achilles said with a sense of agitation that seemed a part of him, these days.

“I’m not being hard on myself when I tell you I’m not scholarship material. Please, Achilles.”

“I’m figuring it out. I’m figuring everything out. Just do the fucking applications, alright?”

And Patroclus did. He accepted the references Achilles wrung out of Chiron for him, and let Achilles read over his statements and forms, before – as though afraid the moment he turned his back, Patroclus might throw them on the fire – Achilles himself sealed them in envelopes and addressed them to each university.

* * *

Things came to a head one night. It was something of a dream, truly. For Achilles. That idea that Patroclus might have his little bottle stuck up his little arse – that fantasy, that craving. It didn’t happen exactly that way, though.

Sitting in his nook in the corner of the room, gazing through the hole in the wall, Achilles marvelled as Patroclus pulled the bottle free of himself, cock still hard, gaze lingering on something (though what, Achilles could not discern). For a feverish second, Achilles imagined Patroclus had spotted his eye in the hole, but moments passed and Patroclus sluggishly reached for his oil and worked four fingers into his used hole.

“ _Achilles,”_ he whispered, and there was need, want, desire, _agony_ in his voice – agony just as Achilles felt watching him. Just like he felt, with the thought of Oxford looming over him. And the object of Patroclus’s attention became evident as Patroclus retracted his fingers from his hole and commenced lathering the bedpost with oil.

“No way,” Achilles said in awe. “No way. _Fuck_.”

The ball crowning the post was almost the size of Achilles’s fist. No way would it fit in Patroclus. No way he could take it…

“I can take you, Achilles,” Patroclus whispered, positioning himself obscenely over the orb, rubbing the rim of his hole over the unforgiving wood of the bedframe like an animal. “I’ve got you. I can take you.”

And he almost did. Patroclus, who always forced it, wanted the stretch, never prepped himself quite enough. Half an inch above the centre – the widest point – it was too much. Fuck, Achilles could see from the next room, could tell by Patroclus’s face that it was too much. But Patroclus pushed through and down until it was in him, till his little arsehole was hugging the ball inside it. Achilles couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck,” Patroclus whispered, his voice strained, a lick of panic. “Fuck, fuck.” He made to pull himself up, but his hole wouldn’t relent, refused to budge. Patroclus’s breath quickened. “No, no, no, no…” He eyed the little jar of oil he had set down too far away, and his face began to pinch. “No,” he whimpered.

Achilles almost waited to be called. Imagined Patroclus so frightened and unsure what to do that he might cry out for him. But Patroclus was more likely to hurt himself, so Achilles plucked up his camera, and stood outside of Patroclus’s room.

“Pat?” he called innocently. “I thought I heard something.”

“I’m fine,” Patroclus gasped. “Go back to bed! Please!”

“You sound terrible. I’m coming in –”

“NO!”

It was stunning. Staring through a hole in the wall did the image no justice. Patroclus’s face splotched red with exertion and shame and arousal, his thighs quivering from the tension of supporting him as his traitorous hole clamped shut around the bedpost. Achilles raised his camera and wordlessly began stealing pictures of his friend.

“Achilles, please,” Patroclus begged. “Please get out. Please. Please just leave.”

“Are you stuck?” Achilles asked innocently. “Can’t I help?”

“No. No. No, just… That jar – hand it to me. I just need to… to fix myself up. Please. I’ll talk about it later with you.” Tears were forming in his eyes, and Achilles sure as hell got a photo of that.

Achilles picked up the oil and inspected it, before unscrewing the lid and coating his fingers with a liberal amount of the lubricant. “I can help you, Pat,” Achilles offered, his voice determined. Patroclus gave an involuntary moan as Achilles’s slicked up index finger prodded at his rim. Resting his head against Patroclus’s abdomen, Achilles managed a finger alongside the bedpost.

“Fuck,” Patroclus bit.

“So tight,” Achilles mumbled. “I mean, you’re fuckin’ loose, huh. Loose to fit it in in the first place, but tight around my finger. Jesus. _Jesus,_ Pat.”

“No, no, no, no…”

“It’s okay. Feels good. You love me, Patroclus? You wanna tell me now? You want it so bad you’re fucking the furniture.” Patroclus gave no answer, and Achilles shrugged. “I got you, babydoll. I got you. Relax. So tight. So tight, so nervous – but you’re no wedding night virgin. Loosen up. Relax that insatiable hole of yours for me.” Miraculously, some of the tension in his hole dissipated, and Achilles grinned, adding a finger. “Good boy. Good boy, Patroclus.” Achilles subtracted his fingers from his hole and Patroclus tried to pull up again, making it almost to the widest part, before sliding back down again.

“Fuck,” Patroclus sobbed. Achilles caught another picture.

“It’s okay. Just fuck yourself up and down. Imagine it’s my cock. Isn’t that what you do? Imagine you’re riding me, Pat.”

Shamefaced, Patroclus began thrusting up and down atop the bedpost until his rim stretched white around the centre, up and down, up and down, until he pulled up and kept going, and his hole gaped around nothing and he fell back on the mattress, shaky and exhausted and hard.

Achilles reached for the oil, reapplying it to his hand. “Do you love me?”

Patroclus shook his head in a daze.

“Well, you don’t really need to, for this.” And Achilles – without hesitation or passion or so much as pressing his mouth to Patroclus’s – began fingerfucking his friend. “Three is no problem, huh, Pat?” Achilles murmured against Patroclus’s chest. Patroclus groaned mindlessly. “And four – you could take it in your sleep, right?”

“Uugh!” Patroclus shuddered, his hole retracting around the intrusion. “A-Achilles…”

“The main event. Too loose for a cock anyway, Pat. Wouldn’t touch the sides, your arsehole is too hungry. Gotta give it what it wants.” And Patroclus took it. Achilles Pelides’s entire fist in his little hole.

“Mmmhmm agh!” Patroclus choked. “’chilles, ‘chilles… so much. It’s… ah.”

Achilles grinned wolfishly, picked up his camera with his left hand and snapped pictures of himself, wrist deep in his Patroclus. Achilles took his cock from his trousers and began stroking himself, retracted his fist, and caught on film Patroclus’s loose, gasping hole.

“No! No, Achilles! No, no, no…”

“Need something to remember you by,” Achilles murmured, thrusting his fist back inside his hole, and out. Punching inside, jabbing, retracting. Patroclus was _wrecked_.

“Please, Achilles,” Patroclus whispered.

“Please what?” Achilles asked, twisting his fist up and down his friend’s passage.

“Please fuck me,” he begged, closing his eyes – the words torture, his body on fire for fever and need. “Please, in me, need you.”

“Say you love me,” Achilles grunted.

“I can’t,” Patroclus said, his voice trembling. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“Sobbing for cock. You forced yourself on a bedpost, now you’re crying for my cock. Just admit that you love me.” Achilles retracted his fist one last time and came over Patroclus’s rosy red entrance. “Finish yourself off for me.”

Patroclus glanced up at Achilles, his eyes dewy with tears, and obeyed, stroking himself to a hasty completion.

“What do we say?” Achilles asked softly.

“Thank you,” Patroclus whimpered.

The shutter of the Regula snapped – click click – and Achilles left him.

* * *

“You hurt yourself?” Mr Pelides asked Patroclus, who concealed the limp admirably, but winced as he walked into the dining room for breakfast the following morning.

“Pulled something? Strained a muscle?” Achilles put in, and Patroclus inhaled sharply, cringing as though Achilles had raised a hand against him.

“No,” he said very quietly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“ _Are_ you okay, Bambi?” Mr Pelides asked, eyebrows knit, setting his newspaper down.

“Mhmm.” And if Mr Pelides’s concern lasted more than half a minute, he might have noticed the tension in Patroclus’s hands or the way his face burned red or how he blinked back tears. “I’m not hungry, actually. I might go for a walk. I’ll be back in time for lessons.”

If Mr Pelides paid the situation any mind at all, he might have seen how his son sat transfixed, or that he left without finishing his eggs not two minutes after Patroclus departed.

* * *

“Pat! Patroclus!” Achilles called out. He jogged a little way up the path that led through crowded bushland. “Patroclus!” Rounding the bend, Achilles almost ran into his friend, who had stopped in the centre of the path. “Are you alright?”

Patroclus just stared at him. He reminded Achilles, for a moment, of a kangaroo – the way they seem to freeze and eye you when you approach, only to spring away. Patroclus was paralysed, but looked ready to bolt.

“Stupid question,” Achilles muttered. “I… You’ll heal up, won’t you?”

Patroclus nodded stiffly.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Achilles said. “We can still be friends and nothing has to change.”

Patroclus choked on a laugh. “And you’ve decided that, have you?”

“I…”

“Achilles, the way you saw me… the position I was in, the – the shame. How can I face you? Or your father?” Patroclus shook his head. “You know what I am, now.”

Achilles rolled his eyes. “Because what I was doing was apple pie. Pat – in case you didn’t realise, I played a part in the… in the events of the night.”

“It’s not the same,” Patroclus muttered. “I… I’m not right, Achilles. I’m not how a man’s meant to be.”

“I was talking bullshit, Patroclus. Christ, I took pictures. But you’re my only friend in the world, and if I have to fuck off in a matter of months to England, I’d like to still have a best mate.” Patroclus shuddered, still looked ready to flee. “I won’t tell Father. I won’t tell Chiron. I won’t tease you like I did at breakfast – that was bloody of me. I’ll let you ride the bike whenever you like. I’ll do your chores for a week. Please be my friend.”

Achilles remembered how feverish and flush Patroclus had been the previous night. Fully clothed in broad daylight, Achilles was certain his own desperation that Patroclus be his friend exceeded even Patroclus’s lust that night.

Patroclus nodded faintly. “If you’ll still have me, of course I’ll… I’ll still be your friend,” he murmured. “You’d… you’d warn me, if you ever… if you decided to use it against me? If you wanted me to leave?”

“Why would I ever want you to leave, Pat?” Achilles asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I have been… I have…” Patroclus’s breath shuddered. “I’ve shamed my father’s house, I’ve been sent… I was… I would understand, I just – I just wouldn’t want you to tell…” Patroclus flinched. “You have every right to, but please don’t tell anyone. Your father and Chiron have been good to me, and I would disgust them, if they knew how I was. What I am. How I… how I am in your house.”

“Oh, Pat,” Achilles whispered, and crossed the distance between them, pulling his friend to his chest. “Patroclus, I would never hurt you.” Though Patroclus’s eyes were dry, he made a sound like a sob, his body trembled. “You’re my favourite person in the world. I won’t leave you alone, I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Achilles asked. “Nothing to apologise for, so good, Pat. You’re good to me.”

“We’d be better off if I weren’t here,” he whispered.

Achilles pulled back. “I would be?” Patroclus nodded. “You’re wrong about that, Pat. Would you be better off somewhere else?” Achilles asked, an edge to his voice. Patroclus shook his head. “I’m handling everything, Pat. I am. Just you wait.”

* * *

They did not have to wait so long. One Tuesday afternoon, Achilles carried an A4 envelope thick with information addressed to Patroclus from the University of Melbourne up to Patroclus’s room.

“It doesn’t feel like a rejection,” Achilles remarked cheerfully, dropping the envelope on Patroclus’s bed.

“Achilles…”

“Open it.”

Patroclus sighed heavily, but Achilles was right, and for a moment he was filled with a sense of joy. _We are pleased to inform you_ …

“I got in,” he said, trying to suppress his smile.

“Yeah, Pat?” Achilles beamed.

“Yeah, I got in. But I can’t afford it –”

“I got into the law school. Melbourne Uni – I got law there last week. I’m gonna accept.”

Patroclus hesitated. “Oxford?”

“Colonial scum like me? They wouldn’t know what hit ‘em. Melbourne’s great. I told Father to send you up as well – with me. Want you around, you’re a good mate and all. Mind, he’ll expect scripts on demand, but he’ll do it.”

“Achilles, you can’t just…”

“Well, I did. I’ll be bored without you. Father’s already agreed, if we both got Melbourne. I’d’ve considered Sydney, worst case if you hadn’t got Melbourne, but I’m glad.” Achilles sat down beside Patroclus on his bed. “Aren’t you glad?”

“It’s too much, Achilles,” Patroclus mumbled. “I owe you too much.”

“Father’s honestly only worried I’ll misbehave again. He reckons you’ll keep me on the straight and narrow, about. If I don’t get arrested, your schooling will be worth every penny.” But Patroclus still looked uncertain. “Fuck, Pat. Would you really make me go alone over a bit of pride?”

“You really don’t need me,” Patroclus said softly.

Achilles felt his stomach drop and his face darken. “Are you looking for an excuse to be rid of me?”

“No. I… Okay.” Patroclus nodded distantly. “Alright.”

Achilles pulled Patroclus into a tight embrace.

* * *

Achilles sat by Patroclus in the coach, their bodies wedged close together.

“Are you excited for Melbourne?” Patroclus asked as they were hauled across the brown, sundried countryside, southbound for Melbourne Uni.

“Not especially. But I have to learn something somewhere, so I suppose law in Melbourne is for the best.”

“Hmm.” Patroclus was quiet for a minute, then, “You don’t seem disappointed about Oxford.”

“I’m not. There’s nothing for me there.”

“It’s the best in the world, isn’t it? I’ve never considered you someone who would settle for less than the best.”

Achilles felt his stomach tighten as he mentally traced the lines of Patroclus’s face – his calm brown eyes, his kind mouth, his contemplative brow. “I’m not,” he said.

“Your mother –”

“Doesn’t want me,” Achilles snapped. “And Father won’t notice I’m gone.”

“I guess you’re stuck with me,” Patroclus said. “I was horribly glad when you told me you wouldn’t leave for Oxford,” Patroclus admitted. “I felt awful for being so glad.”

“You’re… you’re pleased we’ll be in Melbourne together?” Achilles asked.

Patroclus looked at him as if he had grown a second head. “Yeah?”

After an hour of driving, Patroclus’s head leaned heavy in slumber against Achilles’s shoulder. It warmed Achilles – as always, Patroclus loved him without meaning to. Achilles sighed and smiled out the window. Patroclus was his and they were together and maybe they would love each other right, in Melbourne.

_Say you love me, Patroclus._

But they had time for that yet.


	2. Other Summers: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Patroclus's life together, age 12-16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is a double update! The chapter is long and unwieldy, to make it more readable I split it in two (I am posting them both at the same time).
> 
> CW warning - racism. The slur 'dago' is used - usually used as a slur against Italians, but just generally used against any European with a tan.

The first summer, Achilles Pelides had been twelve years old; curious and bored and energetic and blissfully lazy. He still went to the local school, and was top of the class and a bully and a teacher’s pet and a louse, and all the girls hated him and wanted to marry him. He didn’t expect Patroclus.

Of course, he did – he knew he had a cousin of a cousin coming to stay ( _We don’t know how long – we’ll see how he settles down_ ). Achilles imagined Patroclus would be his twin. Patroclus would be rich and clever like him, and they would cause havoc in town and at school. Patroclus would race him and fight him and be his best friend or most worthy rival.

“He’s probably very different to you. He’ll be sad to leave his family,” Achilles’s father had warned him. “Be patient.”

Patroclus was quiet, as it turned out. Patroclus didn’t look him in the eye for the first few days, spoke in mumbles – in thank yous and pleases and sorrys. His curly brown hair was overgrown, and he hid behind it. But he did what Achilles said, and Achilles was a quick study – it wasn’t long before he realised he could demand Patroclus be his friend.

“I want you to come out for a walk,” he said after almost a week of Patroclus staying out of sight as much as was possible. “Father doesn’t like me going out when the sun’s so low, but it’ll be fine if I’ve company.”

Patroclus nodded obediently, and dressed quickly. They put Benny – Achilles’s blue heeler – on the lead, and set out.

“Chiron’s going to teach us at home. I think I’m glad – no more school. Did you like school?” Achilles asked as they walked.

“Yes,” Patroclus said, but he offered no more.

“Well, it was boring. I used to get suspended.”

Patroclus frowned and looked at his toes. “ _You_ used to get suspended?”

Achilles grinned. “Yeah.”

“What for?”

“Once tied a boy to a bull ant nest,” Achilles declared, and Patroclus stopped dead on the trail. Achilles felt suitably egged on. “Jumped around to get them angry. He got bit pretty bad – had to go to hospital.”

Patroclus looked horrified, but also… also pleased, Achilles thought. In awe, he asked, “What’d your dad say?”

Achilles shrugged. “He said, ‘Achilles, don’t tie boys to ants’ nests’. What else would he say?”

“What’d the boy do to deserve it?”

“Told on me a bunch. Once told on me for reading a novel in maths. Idiot.”

“I’d better not tell on you,” Patroclus said, almost smiling.

“Well, I wouldn’t do that to you, Pat,” said Achilles, feeling a little embarrassed. “You’re not an idiot.” Patroclus’s ghost of a smile slipped away. Achilles couldn’t think where it went or why it went, so he babbled on. “Partly I did it to avoid Eton,” Achilles admitted, setting off along down the path again. “It’s some stupid boarding school in England. Father and Mummy almost sent me off, but I’m bad enough they didn’t make me.”

“Oh.” They walked in silence a while longer. “You must like it here, to want to stay so badly.”

“Don’t you miss home?” Achilles asked foolishly.

“No.” Patroclus blinked as though surprised by his own response. “No, I don’t miss it.”

Achilles didn’t push for more than that, and quickly changed the subject to Benny, who was awfully good at catching sticks. Achilles took them to a clearing, and showed Patroclus Benny’s tricks, and Patroclus seemed happy. Achilles liked it, when Patroclus wasn’t sad.

* * *

Achilles’s father always got caught up at the annual fete – he was on boards and councils, and some old coot would always whisk him away into dull conversations about zoning or amenities. Achilles had had the foresight this year to wangle a few dollars from his father to spend on carnival games, soft drink and fairy floss so he and Patroclus would be free to roam the stalls at their leisure. As the sun sank low in the sky, he and Patroclus huddled beneath a tree with a bucket of popcorn between them.

“Do you know any of them?” Patroclus asked, his gaze upon a group of townie kids, all around eleven to fourteen.

Achilles frowned. “Yes,” he admitted.

“They were looking at us – around the fete, they were. Do you think we might say hello?”

Achilles took another fistful of popcorn and scowled. He had seen the children watching him and Patroclus. Achilles hadn’t seen the kids from town hardly at all since Patroclus arrived – their lessons with Mr Chiron were better than school, and Patroclus was better than anyone. They were interested in Patroclus – no one knew much about him. Achilles didn’t know so much about Patroclus either, but he knew he was his.

“They’re boring,” Achilles declared.

“All of them?” Patroclus laughed.

“I heard some of them call you a ‘dago’. They’re idiots.”

Patroclus fell silent for a moment. Patroclus was darker than anyone in Phthia, though that wasn’t saying much. Patroclus had olive skin that tanned brown under the Australian sun, and it was enough to earn unfriendly looks, even from other kids. “Did you actually?”

“They’re idiots,” Achilles said once more. “Once they realise you’re my cousin, they’ll be nice to you. But they… Why would you want to be friends with them? Idiots like that?”

Patroclus looked at Achilles for a long time. “Oh.”

“What?” Achilles snapped. “I can introduce you if you want.”

Patroclus settled back against the wood of the tree trunk. “Did you not have any friends, before?”

Achilles felt his cheeks grow hot. “All of them like me – I’ll introduce you. Of course I had friends.”

“I didn’t,” Patroclus murmured, the words an offering. “I didn’t really have friends back home.”

Achilles felt himself relax at that. “Fine. Fine, I’ll take you down to meet them.”

Achilles took Patroclus by the hand and asserted his presence to the other kids – _This is my cousin Patroclus. He lives with me now._ He shut down idiots who tried to ask Patroclus why he had moved to Phthia, and led the group into a game of tug of war.

Sharing Patroclus was tedious as Achilles expected it would be. He found himself watching Patroclus – Achilles was wary of the townie kids teasing him, but Achilles was equally afraid that Patroclus should favour them over him. It was a relief, then, when Achilles realised that Patroclus watched him back.

* * *

It was February 1954 when Achilles’s second cousin Millicent was set to get married. It was to be a lavish wedding in a country church a few towns over, and Achilles had been excited to go.

“We don’t need special clothes for Patroclus?” Achilles asked his father the day before they were to depart. Achilles had noticed that even after a year in Phthia, Patroclus tended to be invited to things only as Achilles’s guest; his father would ask if he wanted Patroclus to tag along, which seemed silly, because shouldn’t he be asking Patroclus? But he didn’t. He asked Achilles, and Achilles always said yes. Of course bring Patroclus. “I want Patroclus to come along. Of course.”

Achilles’s father sat back in his armchair, and Patroclus, who had been reading at the table, abruptly stood up and went to his room.

“Patroclus can’t come,” his father said tightly. “I’m afraid he’s not invited.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Achilles said indignantly. “He’s with us, and related to Millie too, probably.”

“Millie asked him to stay home. You won’t understand, but this is grown up business.”

“Patroclus isn’t a grown up,” Achilles said obstinately. “I’ll be bored if he doesn’t come.” At this, Peleus shot his son a worried look, and something clicked into place, like it had about Eton and being suspended. “I’ll have to keep myself occupied. There’ll be a graveyard and my other cousins and maybe an ants’ nest.”

“Achilles. You’ll behave yourself, if you come.”

“Then I might stay here,” he said. “Keep Patroclus company.”

Something in his father’s expression softened. “Mr Chiron will watch Patroclus while we’re away.”

“Would you let me stay home?” Achilles asked more civilly. “Please?”

“If you like, my boy.”

* * *

Achilles thought it might be a funny surprise, and didn’t tell Patroclus he had decided to stay in Phthia. When Patroclus entered the kitchen to find Achilles already making an attempt on some eggs, he froze as if he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re meant to be at the wedding,” he said, almost an accusation.

“Not _my_ wedding,” Achilles said with a shrug. “Would’ve been boring, without you. I would’ve ended up in trouble, I reckon.”

“Achilles… you should’ve gone.”

“And been bored out of my mind?”

“It’s a bad idea to do things like this because of me.”

They left it at that, for a long time. Things were as usual until evening. Achilles turned the television on, and they sat in comfortable silence until Patroclus broke it.

“My parents are probably at the wedding,” he remarked flatly.

Achilles looked up. His father had always been purposefully vague about why Patroclus had come to stay. Achilles had assumed maybe his parents were very sick, or had committed some crime. But they were allowed to Millie’s wedding, and Patroclus wasn’t.

“Wouldn’t they want to see you?” Achilles asked.

“No. No, I… I did a terrible thing, back home. I pushed a boy, and he fell over, and he died.” Patroclus watched Achilles intently – waited for a flinch or gasp or look of betrayal.

“Did you mean to?” Achilles asked simply.

“I meant to push him. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I’ve pushed a lot of boys over,” Achilles remarked. “They never die. What bad luck.”

Patroclus stared at Achilles in disbelief. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.”

“Everyone… everyone _hates_ me,” Patroclus said shakily. “They’re right to.”

“Why’d you shove him in the first place?”

“He used to steal my things. He tried to take my dice. He died over a pair of dice.”

Instinctively, Achilles decided this dead boy didn’t matter a drop, and rolled his eyes. “Well, if you think about it, stealing stuff is likely to get you hit or shoved, and you’re likely to fall over if someone shoves you, and there’s a chance you’ll die – so he shouldn’t have tried to steal your stuff in the first place.”

Patroclus wore a similar expression of awe and horror at Achilles’s analysis of the facts as he had upon listening to Achilles’s callousness regarding the boy and the ants’ nest. “Are you blaming _him_?”

Achilles shrugged. “Well, I don’t really care that some random bully couldn’t stay upright.” Achilles didn’t know he believed that until he said it aloud. He didn’t care about the boy at all. Patroclus was startled to silence, so Achilles went on. “Ideally, he wouldn’t have died. But you don’t miss home, and I like that you’re here and if all that’s lost is old Millie’s wedding and a stranger, it’s not so bad.”

And maybe it was confusion, but perhaps it was out of relief that Patroclus smiled. “You’re insane, Pelides.”

* * *

Achilles was almost fourteen when Chiron took responsibility for his and Patroclus’s reproductive education.

“But women don’t get pregnant anytime they have sex, do they?” Achilles queried, following the scientific explanation of sperm and penises and vaginas and ova.

“No. They can – there’s always the possibility – but no. There are ways of… decreasing the odds.”

Achilles was probably meant to ask how to keep girls out of trouble, at that, but his mind went somewhere else entirely.

“And can men have sex with each other?” Achilles asked. Achilles liked tormenting Mr Chiron, and that was what he was doing, but even then he felt his heart jolt anxiously at the thought of two men.

“Pelides, I think you know the answer,” Chiron said flatly, hiding just the slightest hint of amusement. “They can’t have sex for reproduction. As an activity…”

“Buggery?” Achilles asked innocently.

“It’s been known to happen. It’s frowned upon. We aren’t in Ancient Greece.”

At this, Patroclus startled. “Was sodomy allowed in Ancient Greece?”

Chiron glared at Achilles, who flashed a grin, but looked to Patroclus. “It wasn’t the case that men were going steady with each other – but it was tolerated more openly than here and now.”

“The Sacred Band of Thebes was a whole army of men ‘tolerating’ each other,” Achilles announced cheerily, and Patroclus’s eyes widened.

“Do they – does the man being… why would he let someone do that to him?” Patroclus asked softly.

Chiron shot another glare at Achilles, before shaking his head. “Some people find a pleasure in it. Some people have for thousands of years, or so it seems.”

“Why, Pat, you thinking of –”

“Returning to _reproduction_ ,” Chiron rumbled, “We might consider how to keep the girls in Phthia out of trouble. Achilles, of course, will be joining the Band of Thebes,” Chiron jibed, “but Patroclus might like to learn something.”

Chiron gave a comprehensive lesson, and Achilles liked the way Patroclus had blushed when they spoke of men. He imagined kissing Patroclus just to make him squirm. It would be funny, he thought, to kiss Patroclus.

* * *

Fifteen year old Johnny Fields took on the milk run that July, and he took to stopping and chatting with Patroclus at the front entrance of the house. Johnny was handsome – he was bigger and taller than Achilles was. Achilles was still only wiry, skinny and fast. Achilles didn’t like that Johnny Fields talked so much to Patroclus. He didn’t like the way Patroclus flushed and smiled shyly back at him. He knew he could break it. Hearing Patroclus’s laugh at the door one day, Achilles stood up from the kitchen table and called ahead.

“Pat, could you stop flirting with – oh.” He feigned surprise at seeing Johnny with his milk bottles at the door. “Oh. G’day Johnny. Thought Patroclus was flirting with some girl, the way he was giggling.”

Johnny looked up, brows creased a little in confusion. “G’day, Pelides. We’re missin’ you at the school.”

“I like our little classes up here. Chiron teaches us more than you’ll get in school.” Achilles smirked and looked slowly between Johnny and Patroclus. “Y’know, maybe you’d better watch out after all – hold onto your virtue. We were learning reproductive science, and all Patroclus seemed interested in was buggery and a bunch of old Greeks.”

Something in Johnny snapped as Achilles knew it would, but where Achilles had imagined Johnny might turn on his heel and spit on their doormat, Johnny Fields surprised them both and grabbed Patroclus his collar, shoving him against the doorway. “Fuckin’ queer. You fuckin’ pervert fucker.” He shoved Patroclus once more and his head cracked against wood before Achilles grabbed Johnny and beat him off.

“Don’t you touch him,” Achilles growled. He got a few good licks in before Johnny left.

* * *

“Why’d you do that?” Patroclus groaned from his bed, a bag of ice soothing the developing egg on the back of his head.

“Johnny Fields is stupid and annoying and I wanted him to go away,” Achilles replied, which was only half the truth. Johnny Fields was big and good looking and made Patroclus happy and nervous, was the real issue.

“Did you want me to get beaten up?”

“I pulled him off you.”

“My hero.” Patroclus shifted to sit up in bed and sighed an ancient sigh. “He seemed really upset.”

Achilles rolled his eyes. “You haven’t heard about Father Fred?”

“Your family doesn’t go to church.”

“No. But the Fields used to go every week. Then Father Fred started making friends with young boys. He made friends with Johnny Fields. Then Johnny got weird and the Fields stopped going to church a while, until they sent Father Fred packing.” Achilles shrugged. “Probably Johnny was touched up by Fred.”

He spoke about it with a sense of detachment, but it had been a peculiar time in town. Three years ago, Achilles had noticed some of the boys growing too close to the priest – poorer boys who were swayed by his offers of loose change for chores and sweets for smiles. He had seen how Johnny had changed, during that time – he became angrier, prone to outbursts, but otherwise quiet and finnicky.

“You shouldn’t tease someone about a thing like that,” Patroclus murmured.

“I know.” Achilles hesitated. “Someone touch you?”

Patroclus couldn’t tell whether Achilles was concerned or teasing, and found he hadn’t the energy to care. “No.”

“Good.”

* * *

Patroclus came to the door the next time Johnny came by, just the same as any other day. “Sorry about the other day.”

Johnny looked up in alarm, but it was only Patroclus in the doorway – no sign of Achilles. “Yeah, well. You didn’t say nothing. It was Pelides. Probly shouldn’t’ve… you know…”

“He teases me about it. He tells everyone I’m a queer – he’s weird like that. He’s gonna get me beat up, if he’s not careful.” Patroclus smiled self consciously at Johnny, and Johnny relaxed a little.

“Are you? Queer?”

“No. Say, how’d your sister fare in the primary talent contest?”

Patroclus was good at that – deflecting, fixing things. Achilles listened from his father’s study as Johnny prattled on about his kid sister singing better than anyone at the primary school. Later, when Johnny left, Achilles confronted him.

“I don’t tell _everyone_ you’re queer – only him, and poking fun in class.”

“I’d rather he thought you were teasing me than him,” Patroclus replied. “Isn’t it better?”

Achilles, who couldn’t see why it would be, gave a rough shrug and demanded Patroclus go for a walk with him.

* * *

It was the top end of ’55 when, on the decking by the creek, feet in water, toes dancing beneath the shimmering surface, Achilles turned to Patroclus. “You’re my best mate, you know.”

Patroclus glanced up at him. “You don’t prefer anyone in town?”

“No. Do you?” Achilles felt his stomach sink. “Johnny?”

Patroclus was mates with Johnny, these days. Johnny had invited Patroclus to his sixteenth birthday party. He had _invited_ Patroclus and added offhandedly, _And Pelides can come, if he wants_. Patroclus had sat with Johnny and talked by the bonfire. Johnny touched Patroclus an awful lot, for someone who hated poofs so much.

“No. You’re my best friend. You should have someone… I dunno – someone better. But you’re mine, of course.” Patroclus grinned at him, and Achilles imagined kissing him again – imagined how Patroclus might look shocked, then surprised, then red faced and pleased.

Achilles couldn’t do that, so instead he pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket. “Do you want to be my blood brother?”

“We’re already blood,” Patroclus said cautiously. “At least a little.”

“You don’t want to?” Achilles asked.

“Are you sure?”

“I suggested it,” Achilles laughed.

“It’ll leave a scar,” Patroclus said simply. “It’ll be permanent, at least on your skin.”

Permanent… Achilles thought of their initials etched deep into the wooden desk in their library – imagined Patroclus’s nimble fingers tracing the letters. But one day they might leave, or trade in the desk, and what ought to be permanent could become irrelevant. Carving flesh was the answer.

Achilles grinned. “Good.” With that, he carved a line into his right palm. “Fuck. Ow, fuck, fuck – damn, Pat, it _hurts_.” Achilles clutched his palm tight to stem the bleeding. “Fuck. You don’t haveta do that, Pat. You don’t have to –”

But Patroclus solemnly took the blade and swiftly cut his own palm, making a wounded sound at the back of his throat. “Give me your hand.”

Achilles pressed their wounded palms together and held Patroclus’s hand impossibly tight. “I promise I’ll always be your brother, Patroclus.”

“I’ll be yours too,” Patroclus replied. “As long as you want me.”

That night, Peleus scolded the boys for their dramatic antics – _It’s all fun and games until you get an infection or nick a nerve_ – but Achilles relished the pain he carried with him as the wound healed. He often inspected Patroclus’s cut, even when it was only an innocuous pink line in his palm.

“Yours is thicker than mine,” Achilles observed. “You went deep?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Sometimes Achilles worried Patroclus’s scar would heal completely to nothing. The thought invaded his mind often – that Patroclus’s scar might heal, and they would no longer be bound. Achilles imagined he would have to pin Patroclus down and cut him again, mix their blood, make him marked. It was a sick thought, and it sent a thrill down Achilles’s spine.

* * *

By the time they were fifteen, Achilles imagined it was Patroclus’s scarred palm around his cock when he stroked himself off. A sighting out bush told Achilles that Patroclus imagined the same thing. Peaks through the hole in the wall gave him what he craved.

* * *

Patroclus was newly sixteen the following February, and Achilles had volunteered the two of them to go into town and run errands one Saturday morning. He enjoyed time spent this way with Patroclus. Sometimes Patroclus would disclose private things to him. One week he had confessed he wanted to be a doctor. Another time, he admitted he thought James Dean in _East of Eden_ was just about as good looking as Marilyn Monroe. This week, as they marched home, Patroclus seemed to be steeling himself for something big.

“If I told you something and I asked you not to tell anyone… you wouldn’t, would you?” Patroclus asked.

“Unless you were in trouble. You’re not, are you?”

“No. I don’t reckon.” Patroclus shrugged a little. “Y’know Johnny and me are still friends.”

“Yeah.” Achilles didn’t like it – didn’t like that Patroclus still wanted Johnny around for some reason, even though they were blood brothers and lived together and were fine by themselves.

“Remember what you said about Johnny? That maybe someone used to…” Patroclus shrugged uncomfortably.

“I remember.”

“He touches me,” Patroclus said quietly, and Achilles froze.

“He –”

“I don’t mind it,” Patroclus said hurriedly. “But he… I dunno. I don’t think he’s queer. He doesn’t want me to touch him back – thinks it’s disgusting, hates it… but then… I mean, I don’t know.”

“Do you tell him to stop?” Achilles asked.

Patroclus itched a little at his scar and shrugged. “I dunno if I need him to stop so much.”

“You’re queer,” Achilles said with a hint of accusation. Patroclus flinched.

“I like girls still. But I don’t mind. Guys who like that… well, I wouldn’t mind if they liked me. Y’know? If we were like the Greeks and all – if both liked it. But I’m not sure he likes it, is the thing.” Patroclus looked around him – the road home ran along the river and was guarded by bush. He was looking which way to run if Achilles turned on him, and Achilles felt ashamed.

“That’s alright, Pat,” Achilles managed. “I’m not mad or anything. I’m always bringing it up.”

Patroclus relaxed a little. “Thanks.”

“Maybe just be friends with Johnny. I reckon he’s confused – the stuff when he was a kid might’ve messed him up. He probably knows about men and… I don’t know.” Achilles shrugged. “Right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be right, probably.” Patroclus began walking again, but Achilles was rooted to the spot.

“He kiss you?” Achilles asked in a strangled voice.

Patroclus stopped a few feet in front of him. “Not much. Doesn’t like it, with me.”

“Probably better to find someone who likes it, then.”

Patroclus flashed him that peculiar sad grin he sometimes wore when Achilles made fun of him. _Good one,_ it said, as if no one would ever find pleasure in loving him. _Good one, Achilles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The second half should already be up!


	3. Other Summers: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Patroclus's life together age 16-18 (just until chapter 1).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Reminder that this is a double update, so if the last thing you remember is Achilles and Patroclus setting off to uni together, maybe check you've read chapter 2.

Achilles was sixteen when his mother visited him in Australia. She did not come to Phthia – rural and scrubby and ‘ugly’ – but agreed to tour Melbourne with him for two weeks in the summer of the 1956 Olympic Games.

“Without Patroclus, I’m afraid,” Mr Pelides said slowly. “I’ve already spoken to her about it – she won’t have him on your trip. Only you.”

Achilles had soured a little after that revelation. His mother had abandoned him once, and now wouldn’t humour him as Father did about Patroclus. When parents erred, they were meant to spoil their young. Achilles’s mother had refused to acknowledge his existence – surely that was worth Patroclus tagging along for a trip to the city.

Arriving alone in Melbourne at Flinders Street Station, Achilles sat on the steps beneath the clocks and squinted out across the street at the Young and Jackson Hotel. Achilles had been here with Father before – the station, of course, but also the hotel. Young and Jackson was uncommonly old by Australian standards, but mostly it was famous for housing Lefebvre’s _Chloè_ – a racy painting of a French lady Father had snuck Achilles in to see during their last visit. Father had told him that Chloè was a hit with soldiers – _Men were shipped off – fought and died – having never seen another naked woman._ That had struck Achilles as rather miserable; Chloè stirred nothing in him. Going to war with a bunch of young guys would probably prove a more erotic experience…

“Achilles?”

A pale woman with coal black hair and blood red lips blinked at him from the base of the stairs. His name was a question. Achilles smirked – he might say ‘no’, and his own mother wouldn’t know him.

“Yes,” he answered her stiffly. “G’day, Mother.”

She smiled a little at that. “How quaint and Australian,” she drawled in her high English accent. “Good day to you too, son.”

Achilles had anticipated she might be nervous meeting him in the flesh. He was almost a man, now – he had muscles from working around the farm, and a golden tan like his father. She wasn’t, though – nervous. She was only watchful – almost mocking. She didn’t try to cuddle him to her chest, didn’t seem desperate for his affection or frightened by his stature. She simply regarded him at length, before shrugging her narrow shoulders.

“I booked us in for a show tonight, and dinner. I’ll take you to the hotel first. Afterwards I might like to shop – I hear Myers isn’t anything to write home about, but it’s something. Peleus said there’s not much in Phthia. It might be good to dress you.”

“We have a tailor,” Achilles snapped.

“How wonderful – we have something in common,” she replied easily. “Refuse me if you like. I only thought you might like new clothes. Are you happy to call me Mother? You needn’t be. You can call me Thetis, if it would suit you better.”

Achilles considered this. There was no tenderness in the gesture – no shining hope in her eyes. Achilles decided that she probably intended he call her by her name for the sake of avoiding their kinship, so he turned on his most charming grin. “It’s alright, Mummy – I’m not ashamed of you.”

Achilles's mother threw back her head and laughed wickedly, and Achilles felt they had shared a joke of sorts; more than that, perhaps they shared a nature.

* * *

Their trip in Melbourne passed in such a fashion; Achilles’s mother seemed rather unimpressed by Melbourne and, indeed, life in general. Achilles’s pride didn’t get in the way of allowing her to spoil him with clothes and trinkets, and he took a secret pleasure in knowing he would make some of them gifts for Patroclus.

They attended several Olympic events – watching trackside as young men and women raced.

“Your father told me you run,” Mother drawled as Achilles marvelled at the athletes, their muscles bulging and rippling. “Are you any good? He says you aren’t one for team sports.”

“I’m best at running and swimming. Team sports are tedious.”

“I agree,” Mother said. “I’m partial to tennis,” she submitted.

“Tennis isn’t big in Phthia,” Achilles admitted. “AFL, mostly.”

Achilles’s mother rolled her eyes. “That game that manages to be inferior to both rugby and football? What a shame.”

Achilles, who didn’t even like AFL particularly, scowled. “Perhaps it’s only inferior when played by poms.”

Mother rewarded Achilles’s churlishness with a fond hum, and by buying tickets to watch the water polo.

“I know you’re one for swimming,” Mother said, “but I promise it will at least be entertaining.”

* * *

For all that Australians like to swim, the key contenders for water polo were all European. Yugoslavia, Italy, Hungary and the USSR were the favourites. On the 6th of December, Achilles sat in the stands of the Swimming and Diving Centre and observed.

“Hungary versus the USSR. I didn’t know there were so many Hungarians in Australia, let alone in Melbourne,” Achilles said as people spoke excitedly in Hungarian all around him. There was a peculiar electricity in the air.

Thetis’s red mouth stretched. “You’ll have seen in the news that Russian tanks have been rolled out in Hungary. I don’t care terribly much one way or another, but it’s sure to be a show.”

It was not long before the athletes entered the pool – the Hungarians in white caps, the Soviets in black. Achilles saw several of the players exchange words, and his mother watched raptly.

“They speak frightfully poor English,” she said in a low voice. “They don’t teach it much over there – it’s the language of filthy capitalists. Watch them – the Hungarians are speaking Russian to the Soviet players, and I don’t think you need a translator to understand what they’re doing.”

Achilles himself grinned. Australia was, of course, never one to side with Russians. “It’s like pantomime,” Achilles said. “Better than the show the other night.”

“We shall see. Water polo is surprisingly brutal, but all the action tends to happen underwater – kicking and scratching. But this should be something.”

The match would in fact go down in history – the Blood in the Water Match. Achilles had never watched water polo, but he knew it wasn’t meant to be like this – players shoved each other, hurled insults, spat blood. It was theatre. And then Valentin Prokopov punched Ervin Zador in the eye during intermission, and the pool dissolved into chaos.

Achilles and Thetis sat back as spectators leapt to their feet in a frenzy, many crying out in Hungarian as their countryman’s wound became apparent. They felt the chaos wash over them as Aussies and Hungarians alike hurled abuse at the Soviets, several spitting onto the black capped villains of this particular spectacle.

Such a display would make Patroclus withdrawn and quiet. He would try to read up on the situation in Hungary and life behind the Iron Curtain and come to some sort of understanding about bloodlust and hatred and resentment. He would speak about it in circles with Achilles – something about shared humanity, something about trauma – and it would take him a terribly long time to realise that Achilles didn’t particularly care. Achilles didn’t think about the people dying in Hungary beyond how pleased he was by the resulting performance of rage in the pool.

Achilles looked at his mother, who watched as the police were forced to settle the crowd and call the match in Hungary’s favour.

“Better than I imagined,” she said contentedly.

* * *

They spent their last day at St Kilda beach. As they basked in the sun, they could hear the ominous clickety-clack of the Scenic Railway ascending up an incline, only to hurtle down the tracks, passengers screaming in delight as their stomachs flew to their throats. Achilles had been to Luna Park with Patroclus, once – Patroclus had gripped him hard on the rollercoaster. There were pictures of them somewhere standing at the entrance – Mr Moon’s great, terrible mouth threatening to devour them like Saturn.

“I suppose your father has taken you already – to Luna Park,” Mother said flatly from behind Dior sunglasses. “I needn’t suffer it?”

“Yes,” Achilles replied. “With Patroclus two years ago.”

“Of course.”

“It was around about the time the Queen was visiting,” Achilles said. “Do you know her, or is she also too lowborn to meet your standards?”

Achilles felt petty in that moment – embarrassingly so. He would not have been so childish with Father or Chiron, but his mother was so much himself that he found it difficult to keep control over his temper.

“Ah, we’ve hit on it, then,” Mother said with a quirk of her lips. “That Mummy doesn’t love you and abandoned you to the colonies.”

Achilles folded his arms over his bare chest. “Not at all, Mother.”

“I did, though – abandon you. If you were a girl, or if you hadn’t looked so damned much like your father, I might have entertained keeping you around, you know. But you came out blonde haired and green eyed and a boy. So I sent you off with Peleus with the vague offer of importing you back for school. But first impressions can be deceiving. You _are_ my son.” Achilles’s mother sounded bored, as if displaying emotion would be horribly embarrassing.

“How’d’ya figure that?” Achilles asked, laying on his accent thick as he could.

His mother laughed, as if his insolence delighted her. “They say mothers can smell their young. I don’t know about that, but I see myself in you. I see it when you speak to people – you try to smile your father’s smile and bandy about his playful turns of phrase, but you are pretending. I know it, because I also have to pretend.”

“To be what?” Achilles asked.

“Human,” said Mother, before tilting her head and baring her teeth in a strange smile. “Forgive me – that was self-indulgent. I think we see things differently from other people. I think we share an understanding that in the absence of God, we are the centre of our own universe – no sacrifice is too much to keep us in orbit. I gave you up.”

Achilles frowned. Something still stabbed at his guts, hearing her say it – perhaps he inherited some human weakness from his father. But he understood what she meant. “Did Father tell you I tied a boy up over an ants’ nest to get out of Eton?”

Mother cackled wickedly again, and the foolish human part of Achilles felt warm. “He didn’t. I wish he had. That pleases me. I shouldn’t say so, but it does. It’s a funny thing – if you were so monstrous and had grown up stupid or ugly or sickly, I think I would be repulsed. There’s something about cruelty and beauty.”

“How very Oscar Wilde,” Achilles mused.

Mother took off her sunglasses, and she looked even younger than her thirty-six years. “I think you have the wrong idea about England. Yes, there’ll be toffs, but the trick is playing the part. There’s much more to get up to. In London, there’s nothing you can’t have or do. If not Eton or Harrow, perhaps Oxford or Cambridge? I would have you. You’ve impressed me – I would give you my name.”

It called to Achilles. The tides of St Kilda beach would carry him to Tasmania and the South Pole rather than England, but he imagined crossing the seas and borders into a world where he could have _anything_ – where he could be icy as his mother.

He imagined Patroclus, naked and coquettish as Chloè staring out a window onto Paris (they could holiday in France or Spain or Italy as they pleased).

Only, Patroclus would not be able to accompany Achilles. Patroclus could not be found in London, nor the laneways of Paris. Patroclus was in Phthia, and had not been allowed to come to Melbourne for a summer trip.

“ _Mummy doesn’t love you…_ ” Achilles parroted, fighting hard to sound aloof. “Is that right?”

Thetis considered this. “I like you, which is almost the same thing, and rather better. I know plenty of mothers who love their spawn without liking them even a little.” She scowled. “I would kill for you, I think. But I wouldn’t die for you. It’s not personal.” She blinked, as if some emotion was threatening to creep up on her. “I don’t suppose your father ever told you how you entered the world. I’ll give you that, and in exchange I think you won’t ask me for mother’s love.”

Thetis spun a story of youth and betrayal and shame, totally devoid of love. It made Achilles angry and sad and lonely and hurt. It made him want to hate his father, who alone had raised him. It made him feel the smarting ache of the love he would never be able to steal from his mother. It made him miss Patroclus.

“I’ll think about it,” Achilles said, his voice mimicking his mother’s own bored tones. “About Oxford and England. I’ll apply, maybe.”

Achilles closed his eyes and imagined Patroclus, his Chloè, staring not onto Parisian laneways, but watching through the front window that looks out onto their driveway in Phthia, anticipating Achilles’s return home. Achilles glanced down at the scar across his palm. Patroclus, he thought, was the only person who loved him.

* * *

It was Johnny’s eighteenth birthday party, and this year Achilles had been invited only because his father now employed Johnny as a farmhand. Patroclus had been invited, of course, because he was kind and interesting and a good lay.

It was another bonfire, of course, with food and drink and a moron with a guitar. It was idle chatter and the occasional round of song and retellings of mundane anecdotes and lame scary stories and Achilles longed to leave.

The townie kids were curious about Patroclus. They remembered Achilles – charming, quick, frightening – but Patroclus was a mystery to them still. Achilles watched as his former peers warmed to Patroclus by the fire, clapping him on the back and laughing louder and louder as they drank long into the night.

“Is he your cousin?” slurred Paul, a ferrety seventeen year old.

Achilles scowled. “Distant cousins.”

“He doesn’t look like you,” Paul said in agreement.

“He’s still handsome,” sighed Sarah, the butcher’s daughter. She stroked her long, blonde plaits. “Pelides is Prince Charming, but Pat is Heathcliff.”

Achilles threw his head back and laughed. Patroclus was darker than townies knew what to do with, and seemed to come out of nowhere, but the notion that Patroclus was some sort of rugged Byronic hero was outlandish.

“A sheep in wolf’s clothing, I promise,” Achilles said coldly. “He’s a good boy, really.”

Paul and Sarah teetered, but Achilles saw it – the animal instinct. _Achilles is dangerous,_ their bodies told them. Perhaps they understood he was the wolf.

“Where’s Pat gone?” Achilles asked abruptly, glancing about the bonfire. It was getting late, and several of their party were passed out around the fire. A few kids blinked back at Achilles vacantly until he snapped, “My drunk cousin – anyone seen him?”

“Oh! I think they might have wandered over to the shed to get more logs for the fire,” said a pretty red-head, who looked at Achilles with stars in her eyes even as she leaned heavily into her boyfriend.

_They._

Patroclus went with Johnny, then.

Achilles was only a few drinks in, and knew the fantasy would surely be worse than the reality. That was why he stumbled through the dark fifty metres of scrub to reach the candle lit shed.

It was a small space with nowhere to hide, and Achilles was easily able to find a crack in the wall to spy on Patroclus. It was not, Achilles thought, so bad as it might be. Johnny had pressed Patroclus against the opposite wall of the shed and had snaked his hand down Patroclus’s pants to stroke him off. It was nothing, really. Nothing compared to some of the lewd things Achilles had observed through his peephole at home. Nothing compared to what Achilles imagined. But Patroclus leaned into Johnny’s touch – nestled his face into his neck like a desperate little runt – and Achilles felt contempt as he never had before.

“’m sorry,” Patroclus slurred. “’m dizzy. Don’t know if I can… Sorry.”

Johnny only grunted, continuing his feverish attempt to tug Patroclus off. The thought crossed Achilles’s mind that he might kill Johnny in this shed, and no one would blame him – not the other kids, or Patroclus, who would have seen it with his own eyes.

Achilles decided not to kill Johnny that night. Instead, he ambled back ten metres from the shed and called, “Patroclus! Pat…? Someone said you were getting wood – are you there?”

Achilles heard Johnny swear, and the sound of the two boys frantically disengaging themselves.

“H-here, Achilles!” Patroclus stammered back.

Achilles walked into the shed and eyed Johnny, whose cheeks shone bright red, and Patroclus, who pinned his gaze to the ground. “Someone said they worried you were very drunk, Pat,” Achilles said slowly.

Patroclus winced. “’m not so bad.”

“You look it, though. We should get you home before people gossip you’re a drunk,” Achilles said.

“Come on – he’s alright,” Johnny said defensively. “Everyone’s had a bit.”

Achilles looked at him icily. “No one cares if some townie kids get pissed. Patroclus has my family name to think of – Patroclus Pelides. Isn’t that right?”

Patroclus shivered and crossed his arms. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry, Achilles.”

Achilles shrugged stiffly. “Say good night to Johnny, and we’ll be off.”

Patroclus mumbled his goodbyes to Johnny in a low, hollow voice, before stumbling into step with Achilles.

“Happy Birthday, Johnny,” Achilles called behind them as they began the long journey home.

* * *

They had not left Johnny Fields’s property when Patroclus hesitated by the gate. “I have to… I have to piss, Achilles,” he slurred, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll find the outhouse…”

“No,” Achilles said harshly. “We’re going home.”

Patroclus looked wounded, but he nodded just the same and walked dizzily by Achilles’s side. “I didn’t think I was that bad,” he said quietly. “Have I embarrassed us?”

Achilles considered this. “They’re all drunk too – I doubt anyone will think badly of you. You know that heifer Sarah Hardin called you Heathcliff.”

“That’s not nice, ‘chilles…”

“I’m not nice,” Achilles said simply. “But you aren’t Heathcliff, are you?”

Patroclus shook his head in the dark. “No… no. Heathcliff’s a bastard.”

“So that’d make me Heathcliff?” Achilles asked. Achilles felt bold, that night. The darkness and Patroclus’s inebriation gave him a peculiar sensation of power.

“No. Heathcliff was… I hated Heathcliff. I don’t hate you,” he murmured. He stopped again. “I really have to piss, Achilles.”

Achilles glanced around them. Home was a good twenty minute walk still, lit by moonlight, paved by gum trees. “You can hold it. There’s no outhouse out here.”

“I’ll go behind a tree. Please, Achilles…”

Achilles looked at his shamefaced cousin. How exquisite… “No, Patroclus. Come on.”

They walked in silence for a long time. Patroclus trailed a little behind Achilles, and occasionally made a small sound of desperation that sent shivers over Achilles’s flesh.

“Truthfully everyone was quite impressed by you,” Achilles began. “Mysterious and well-mannered. Put me to shame, Pat. You know they all figure I’m the son of a French whore? No one would believe my secret mother is English nobility. Funny. Who would guess that you’re a killer?”

Patroclus came to an abrupt halt. “Achilles… I –”

Achilles shrugged. “Like I said, it’s never bothered me, about you. It’s only funny.”

“It… it isn’t funny,” Patroclus said reproachfully. “I wish you wouldn’t… Have I upset you?”

“Am I nasty, when you upset me?”

Patroclus shook his head. “I’m sorry I got drunk.” He swallowed. “Achilles, I’m not gonna make it back. I need to go _now._ ”

“I said you’ll make it,” Achilles growled.

“Achilles, I can’t.”

“You will.”

They were on Pelides land, but still five minutes from the house, when Patroclus froze.

“ _Oh God,_ ” he cried, his voice breaking as he fell to the ground, his clumsy drunk fingers fumbling to undo his trousers to no avail. “Fuck. Fuck, Achilles…”

Achilles heard it – the hissing sound of Patroclus pissing himself. They were practically on the driveway – so _close_ – but Patroclus had lost control.

There was something beautiful about it, he thought. He watched the dark patch spread over the front of Patroclus’s pants as Patroclus’s face pinched in humiliation, his hands limp in surrender as he waited for it to be over. When he finished, Patroclus sat up, his face red as he swatted away tears of shame.

“I… I told you,” he whispered. “I told you I needed to…”

Achilles sat in awe of him. “Why didn’t you go behind a tree or up against a fence like a regular drunk?”

Patroclus’s face scrunched. “You… you _told_ me not to,” he said accusatorily. “You… _you_ said not to.”

Achilles felt warmth spread through him. Johnny had rutted up against Patroclus – had stroked Patroclus’s cock, let Patroclus nuzzle into him like a bitch – but Achilles had done this.

 _We’re the same age,_ Achilles almost said. _Why do you take orders from me, Patroclus? Did you piss yourself just to avoid disobeying me?_

Instead he crouched down by Patroclus. “You’re right,” he said simply. “Come on – let’s get you home and cleaned up.

Once in the house, Achilles settled Patroclus into a bath.

“Sleep in my bed, tonight,” Achilles said gently. “In case you get sick.”

Patroclus couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You were right to make me come home early. I can’t believe I…”

“That was my fault, Pat. It’s alright. It really is.”

As Patroclus lay in his bed, Achilles hummed to himself, rinsing Patroclus’s piss drenched trousers so the maid wouldn’t remark upon the smell when she laundered them.

Achilles considered what he had done, that night. When animals mark their territory, they piss on it, don’t they? Patroclus was Achilles’s, and Achilles was an animal.

* * *

Achilles begged his father not to make a fuss about the acceptance to Oxford. It wasn’t such a difficult thing to keep quiet – Peleus was reasonably hands off, and Chiron was understanding of his wanting to break the news to Patroclus privately in his own time. Truthfully – immaturely – Achilles imagined the acceptance letter would dissolve into thin air if he never spoke of it. But it began to fester inside of him.

Oxford.

If Achilles went to Oxford, Patroclus would be all alone. Achilles’s father held no ill-will for Patroclus, but he was still treated as Achilles’s guest, even after six years. With Achilles gone, Patroclus would no longer be ‘Bambi’, but a boarder. Patroclus would work on the farm until he could afford university in Melbourne. Maybe he would let Johnny Fields touch him again. Maybe he would find some nice boy in Melbourne who would enjoy kissing him and fucking him. Achilles became certain that Patroclus’s scar would heal in his absence.

One day, he grew bored – Patroclus was out with Johnny for a picnic in the forest. Achilles decided to bump into them, and like a hunter he set off through the woods to find his Patroclus. He was quiet, stealthy, and he knew that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a crime to stumble upon friends; what he was doing was spying, preying upon Patroclus – he knew that. He was rewarded for his efforts.

Patroclus, sitting on a picnic rug, leaned back, his fingers clutching the blanket, his head and the small of his back resting against the trunk of a tree – and Johnny sucking his cock.

What was striking about the image – and what would keep Achilles awake long into the night – was the look of ambivalence on Patroclus’s face. He was not surrendering himself to pleasure, nor giggling like a young lover. Achilles recalled how Patroclus had been in the shed – how he had leaned into Johnny’s touch. Without being discouraging, Patroclus now simply let Johnny have him – a toy. And the thought struck Achilles that if he held Patroclus and loved him, it would be only this.

“I’m almost… Johnny, I’m gonna… soon,” Patroclus murmured, and Johnny kept sucking him, kept having him, and Patroclus came – quietly, with a sense of stillness. Johnny spat Patroclus’s seed like tobacco and, after a long moment, untangled himself from Patroclus. He looked ashamed, Achilles thought. Patroclus must have thought so too, because he conjured his friendliest smile. “I really liked it, Johnny. Thank you.” This didn’t seem to help, however, and Johnny looked like a frightened animal backed into a corner. Patroclus tried to soothe him, and leaned in to kiss Johnny gingerly on the mouth. For a second, Achilles thought it had worked – that Johnny would melt into his arms – but the kiss was broken by Johnny shoving Patroclus violently off him and into the tree he had been leaning against.

“Fucking told you I don’t like it. I don’t… I’m not like that,” Johnny snarled.

Patroclus clutched the back of his head where it connected with the wood and grimaced. “Sorry. I remember.”

Johnny shook his head. “Sorry for shoving you.”

“It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Achilles wanted to slash Johnny’s throat for hurting Patroclus. Wanted to tear him apart for touching Patroclus and not loving him.

“Can I…?” Johnny moved into Patroclus’s space and hesitantly kissed the crown of Patroclus’s head.

“You’re always allowed,” Patroclus murmured. “Anything, Johnny.” He spoke in whispers, the only audible sound the guttural edges of consonants and aspirated hisses that come of teeth and tongue and lips. “I just want to make you feel good.”

Achilles’s blood ran cold.

* * *

They sat together – cousins, blood brothers, friends – on the back paddock without a picnic blanket, sharing a sandwich for afternoon tea.

“Have you heard back from Oxford?” Patroclus asked between mouthfuls.

“No.” Achilles had always been afraid of leaving Patroclus alone, but now – since Johnny – he could only imagine Patroclus shrugging, moving on while _he_ was alone and miserable in cold, stuffy England. Tearing up the dry, brittle summer grass, Achilles grunted, “How’s your head?”

Patroclus startled. “Hm?”

“Johnny always so violent? That day with the door, then the exact same thing on Saturday.” Achilles whistled, but couldn’t muster a sneer. “Thought you said you were stopping that.”

Patroclus frowned and set his sandwich aside. “Were you watching?”

“Yeah. Got to see you lie back and think of England. He that good?”

“That’s messed up, Achilles.”

“Really messed up – I agree with you.” Achilles picked up the cast off remains of Patroclus’s half of the sandwich and hurled them across the paddock into the dusty field. Patroclus watched him do it, didn’t budge an inch. “Why do you just sit there? Just let things happen?”

“You want me to fight you over a sandwich?”

“No,” Achilles snapped. “It’s not the fucking sandwich – it’s everything.”

“So I don’t raise hell like you –”

“Do anything to me, Johnny – anything you want. Fuck me, beat me up, _I just want to make you feel good_ ,” Achilles bit savagely. “What’s ‘anything’? That’s what I wanna know. _Anything._ Maybe you could marry him in church, let him fuck some babies into you –”

“It’s not like that.”

“Well hell, Pat – what’s it like?”

“I just want to be useful,” Patroclus said.

“Is that what you are, Patroclus? You’re _useful_?”

_Be patient._

_He’s probably very different to you._

Achilles’s father had been trying to tell Achilles that Patroclus was broken – that he was getting a patched up toy that might not work right. Achilles had always been embarrassed by the idea – that his father thought that of Patroclus – that Patroclus might be aware of this assumption. Patroclus was sad sometimes, and Achilles hated that, always tried to cheer him up – but that was normal enough. For the longest time, Achilles had assumed Patroclus was fine because he was his best friend, blood brother – but he was wrong; Patroclus was close to him _because_ he was messed up, crazy. The other children had once crowded him or left him alone – no one could stand to be alone with him. His erratic moods, his selfishness – in a group, his charisma and charm overpowered his madness, but one on one, he knew what he was like. No one endured it but Patroclus. Nobody could love him but Patroclus.

Unless… Achilles felt it stab at his gut. Unless Patroclus was only…

“Are you useful to me?” Achilles asked flatly.

“I try to be.”

There were galahs on the paddock, and they cooed and squawked, but when Achilles would recall the incident under the evening summer sun later, he remembered there being an impossibly long silence.

Achilles would never be able to say why he did it. He would never really understand what kind of point he was trying to make, but he leapt onto Patroclus and pinned him down beneath his knees and looked at his best friend long and hard. Everything was in chaos. Patroclus looked frightened, and made weak attempts to escape – he was not indifferent, not bored as he was with Johnny, but he didn’t _fight_ , didn’t spit in Achilles’s face. Achilles undid his trousers and took out his cock and stroked himself.

“Achilles! No –”

“Anything,” Achilles breathed. “I’ll do anything for you, Johnny. Wanna make me feel good, Pat?”

“Please.” Patroclus struggled a little harder, and Achilles liked it. At least he wasn’t just lying back and _taking_ it. At least he cared that Achilles was hurting him.

“Keep wriggling and the both of us are going to hurt,” Achilles managed. “And I’ll win just the same, but I’ll have a cut lip and you'll have a broken nose and it'll take me longer to get off if your pretty face gets ruined. I'd hate to do that. I really would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I sort of wanted to tag the weird set of events that led to Patroclus pissing himself. It feels like something to tag, but it's not really sexual per se.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Your comments make my day <3


	4. Semester One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Patroclus at uni

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> This chapter is a mess. Enjoy watching the PoV change in the blink of an eye. I am actually sorry for this - I promise it's setting up for juicier chapters. It's also horrifically long.
> 
> Some fun info about this fic:
> 
> \- Melbourne is, at least by Australians, pronounced 'Melbin'  
> \- It's the second largest city in Australia  
> \- I wrote passages for this fic during monotonous days at my retail job on receipt rolls last summer

Arriving at Melbourne University, it was soon apparent to Patroclus that this was Achilles’s world – though he was loathe to admit it. Achilles, of course, had spurned this way of life long ago; dodging Eton, and even the city boarding schools his father had offered him as a child, Achilles had made an admirable effort of divorcing himself from his situation. Yet this, Patroclus thought, was exactly a place where Achilles would be worshipped.

It was a knife’s edge, Achilles’s popularity. A jot less confident and he would have been food for wolves, but Achilles pulled off his status as mysterious old money remarkably well, surrounded by private school toffs.

“I was privately educated – Father had a man tutor myself and my cousin,” Achilles would remark when asked where he had schooled, and he said it with such an air that even the Scotch boys were jealous.

“I couldn’t stand somewhere like Oxford or Cambridge. Even here – the air is stale. I can’t think how anything new or interesting is meant to come out of places like that,” Achilles would lament, and the university lads lapped it up – that this strange specimen of a law student roamed the bushlands dreaming beautifully and thinking intelligent thoughts, and otherwise running and jumping and shooting as a man should and that they were all less for having been couped up in the city all their lives in schools and libraries and colleges. These young men came to swarm Achilles, adoring without liking him.

In the evenings, Patroclus was still joined by Achilles in his room reasonably often.

“They’re all idiots,” Achilles informed Patroclus from his bed as Patroclus studied anatomy at his desk by lamplight. “Don’t you think?”

“Tommy Agamemnon gives a poor impression,” Patroclus admitted. Tommy was a second year Commerce student with an inflated sense of self-importance and a disconcerting hatred of women.

“His brother’s a cock too. Frankie Ajax, though – moron if ever I knew one, but good at field sports. Excellent at discus and shotput.”

“How’s track?” Patroclus put in, chewing the end of his pencil. Achilles had joined the track team first thing, flooring the coaches who had never heard his name even in the rural competitions.

Achilles flashed a grin. “You should join me. They’re slow, here.”

“I was never as fast as you,” Patroclus replied.

“Neither are they.”

“Doubt I’ll have the time. I’m not as fast as you up here either,” said Patroclus, drumming his fingers over his temple. Achilles rolled his eyes, but there was a truth to it. Achilles could read things once and understand. Patroclus had to slog away with flash cards and long nights to keep up. “I reckon I’ll be wanting some work if I can get it.”

It was a point of embarrassment that Mr Pelides provided a significantly smaller allowance to Patroclus than he gave his son. Patroclus was grateful to get anything at all, of course, but Achilles had argued with his father before arriving at Trinity College, and later offered some of his own allowance to make up the difference. Patroclus had refused.

“Ah,” Achilles began with a sense of brightness. “Actually, the true value of Ajax is that he has a stupid brother still in high school who would greatly value a tutor. It’ll pay, obviously, and if stupidity runs in the family – which it does, I can tell – I think you should be able to get a few hours with him a week for pocket money.”

“Oh.” Patroclus spun around on his chair. “Achilles, that’s very… thank you. I’m grateful. Maybe introduce me to Ajax sometime.”

Achilles beamed. “Any time, Pat.” Achilles crossed the room and pulled Patroclus into an embrace. It felt, in the early days at least, that things might be different in Melbourne. Different and good.

* * *

It was a peculiar feeling for Patroclus – being alone, but not forsaken. He had been alone after he killed the boy in Opus – those awful silent weeks before he was taken to Phthia. He had been alone and hated, then, cowering in shadows, a lump crawling up his throat any time he had to reach for the door knob that would send him stumbling free from the safety of his bedroom into the disgust of his father or the townspeople. And then, of course, Mr Chiron had found him and arranged for his new life; a life with Achilles. A life _owed to_ Achilles.

He had always been in Achilles’s grasp, in Phthia. At any moment, Achilles might decide he wanted him and summon him for a walk or to play about on Mount Pelion, or in Pocock Creek. And just like Benny, Patroclus’s ears would prick, and he would do as Achilles bid him do. Once Achilles had called on him in the middle of the night, touched him, filled him with his whole hand…

Such a thing was unimaginable in Melbourne. In his dorm room on the opposite end of the hall from Achilles, Patroclus could shut his door and know that he was unreachable. For hours each day Achilles had track or lectures or readings for class ( _There are so many fucking readings in law, Pat. Fuck_ ) and Patroclus didn’t have to anticipate him.

Achilles still had him, of course. When they took meals at the college, Patroclus could be sure that at some point he would look up and see Achilles’s golden face across from him. This, he thought, was how things were meant to be. This was what friendship was; what had happened in Phthia – what Patroclus had _allowed_ to happen in Phthia – was an aberration. It had been shameful and frightening, yet there was something lost.

The duality of Achilles was perhaps fundamental to their relationship – his savage cruelty and unlikely warmth. Achilles was easier to manage in Melbourne, but Patroclus found himself missing his touches – the rough, demeaning handling when Achilles grew frustrated with him, but also the tender, affectionate touches that hadn’t seemed alien until there were others to perceive them.

The nightmares didn’t stop in Melbourne. Patroclus supposed he hadn’t really expected they would – why should they? He had had them in Opus, and then in Phthia – they lived in his head, not a city or town. Achilles had usually come for him when the nightmares came. It had been embarrassing at first – that he cried out loud enough for Achilles to hear even before their rooms were next to each other.

_Your father’ll be glad for the peace and quiet when I’m gone,_ Patroclus had said warily a week out from their departure to Melbourne. The dreams had come – calls for blood, a noose, the gallows, the boy – and so had Achilles. Even at eighteen, he had clamoured into Patroclus’s bed and pulled him in tight to his chest.

_He’s a heavy sleeper. Whiskey’ll do that,_ Achilles said simply. _You never call for him._

_Huh?_

Achilles had placed a hand at the base of Patroclus’s neck and sighed. _You call for me, sometimes. Chiron too, occasionally. Never Father. At first I thought it was on purpose, but I must be part of the nightmare, huh?_

Achilles had smiled his devil’s grin, but Patroclus knew him too well. _You’re not the monster, Achilles. That’s not it._

_I hoped not. I’m glad, Pat._

_I hope I’m not too loud. We’ll be in dorms – God, it’ll be embarrassing._

_I won’t let anyone bother you._

Patroclus had laughed – that Achilles was crazy enough to think he could control what happened at college, or insane enough to actually manage it made him smile. _No. No, it’ll be embarrassing for you if I call out to you in the night. I’ll try not to make a fuss, but I can’t control it so much._

Achilles had pulled away a little. _I won’t be… Come to me. Any time. Maybe I won’t be able to hear you, but wake me if you ever need._

Patroclus had shrugged it off and Achilles had slept the night in his bed – nothing was so fearsome or frightening as Achilles, and the monster at his side kept away the demons of memory.

But Patroclus hadn’t taken Achilles up on his offer. The nightmares found him in his little dorm and sometimes Patroclus would wake in a pool of sweat and race for the door and out into the hallway and very occasionally he would make it outside Achilles’s room… But he always stopped himself from knocking.

Achilles was his friend now. They would hang out and chat and go for walks about the city and keep a healthy distance, and Patroclus would pretend he didn’t miss the venom of Achilles’s ire and the antidote of his kindness.

* * *

“I saw you with a girl,” Achilles said as a greeting one evening, placing his tray down across from Patroclus in the dining hall. “The same one, a few times.”

“Briseis,” Patroclus submitted, gathering a wad of mashed potato on his fork and pressing it against the loose peas and corn scattered across his plate. “She’s in medicine in my year. She’s over at the University Women’s College.”

“Medicine?” Achilles asked, eyebrows raised.

Patroclus looked up. “Come off it – she gets a hard enough time in class. Surely you’re not –”

“No,” Achilles agreed, shaking his head. “No, I was only surprised. Chiron raised me better than that.”

They shared a laugh at that. Mr Pelides had provided for them, but Mr Chiron had given them what little rearing they had received – six or so hours, five days a week. They were wild, but for that.

“She’s a good one,” Patroclus offered. “On a scholarship and all.”

“Do you like her?”

And just for a second Patroclus felt the dread pool in his gut as if they were in Phthia. _Do you like her?_ What would Achilles have done, had Patroclus ever entertained thoughts of one of the girls in town? It was a fear Patroclus held in common with Mr Pelides and Mr Chiron – that Achilles would take arms against the wrong person. In Melbourne there were plenty of boys from families as influential as Achilles’s, and he would not get away with cruelty so easily. But Achilles had only ever punished Patroclus in his rage, and that was something. Patroclus could handle Achilles.

“I do like her,” Patroclus admitted, smiling a little.

“I thought you…” Achilles raised an eyebrow, looking about them to insure no one was within earshot. “You know?”

“Both. I thought I told you?”

“I figured…” Achilles trailed off, frowning. “Alright.” Achilles took a bite of his food. “You were only making do, I suppose, with Johnny.”

Patroclus felt a little sorry for Achilles. If they were in Phthia, they would have this conversation in private, and Achilles might have punished him. Achilles might have communicated his hurt by pushing him into the creek or saying something unthinkably nasty. As it was Achilles was sat at a table doing his best impression of being civilised.

“She made it clear she wasn’t after suitors when I started partnering her for pracs,” Patroclus offered, which was true. Briseis had eyed him coldly, her guard up, _I’m here to become a doctor, not a doctor’s wife._ “It was one of the first things she told me, actually.” Patroclus flicked his gaze up to find Achilles’s face a little lighter. “Are there no women in law? Surely you’ve seen girls around campus?”

Patroclus chewed away at his peas for a few moments before registering Achilles’s silence. When he looked up again, he saw Achilles had abandoned his fork in mashed potato, his mouth open in confusion.

“There are… there _are_ women in law,” Achilles said, his voice strained. He laughed soundlessly. “Patroclus… Tell me you aren’t that dense. Do you honestly think _I_ was only making do?”

Patroclus felt himself flush. He had imagined Achilles was like himself, maybe. It was impossible not to see that Achilles had some sort of twisted up feelings for him, but yes – yes, Patroclus had always supposed that Achilles had, in a sense, been making do. Achilles was ruthless and demanding and seemed to hate the townie kids because they were common and beneath him. Patroclus had been given to Achilles – a cousin, something that might, in the relative isolation of Phthia, pass as an equal – and Achilles had enjoyed him because he was his, and because he was almost clever. It seemed only natural to Patroclus that Achilles should find the women of Melbourne Uni to his liking.

“Oh.”

Achilles knitted his eyebrows. “Oh?” It was Achilles’s turn to burn red. “I…” Achilles blinked. “I’m not the marrying sort,” he said in the end. “I thought that was rather clear.”

“The Sacred Band of Thebes,” Patroclus said kindly. He kicked Achilles lightly under the table to make him meet his gaze. “Achilles… You’re right – I was dense. Was that why you were always funny about Johnny?”

Achilles looked momentarily taken aback. “I… Are you asking…?”

“Were you interested in him before?” Patroclus asked, glancing about to see they were alone in their conversation. “He’s sensitive – I don’t know he could have withstood you.”

“You withstand me,” Achilles said quietly.

“I have the temperament for it,” Patroclus conceded. It was not a point of pride.

“I’ve never cared for Johnny,” Achilles muttered.

“Johnny’s enlisted. I don’t suppose he wrote you.”

“No. Because I don’t give two fucks about Johnny,” Achilles bit, before screwing his eyes tight shut.

“Sorry,” Patroclus said. “I only thought… But that’s alright. Really this changes nothing between us – I promise.”

Achilles stared at him blankly for a few seconds before smiling big and wide. “I’m _so_ glad,” he said flatly.

There was something unfinished – something left unsaid. There always was, now. Something lived and died on Achilles’s tongue, and Patroclus was glad of it. He tried to be glad of it.

* * *

It was a trick getting Patroclus to go out for drinks. It wasn’t until ANZAC Day that Achilles was able to convince Patroclus to watch the Victorian Football League and chase it with drinks at the Prince Alfred Hotel.

“I know a few guys’ll be there,” Achilles said as they wandered down Grattan Street.

“You’ll tell me if I… I don’t want to get too drunk and…” Patroclus said guiltily. Ever since Johnny’s eighteenth, Patroclus had been odd about alcohol. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink – he did – but he treated it like something shameful and secret.

Achilles felt himself falter as he led Patroclus into the pub. “You’ll be alright. C’mon – I’ll introduce you to Frankie Ajax.”

Patroclus was a natural amongst the uni crowd. He smiled reassuringly, laughed at Ajax’s clumsy jokes, bought a round. They couldn’t be themselves in such settings – in private, Patroclus was quiet and considered, Achilles unpredictable and contrary – but Patroclus took joy in people liking him and feeling good, and Ajax was an easy enough audience. It was like the townie kids all over again, and Achilles had to remind himself that this was his own idea.

“Your brother – Pat’s too good to ask you himself, but were your parents still considering a tutor?” Achilles asked over the noise of the pub.

“Oh! Oh – yes! Yes, they were.” Ajax stifled a belch and placed his pint glass roughly on the table by his elbow. “Pat… could Pat…?”

“Pat, you reckon you could fit Joey in? Mostly maths, wasn’t it? You were always a whizz at maths,” Achilles said smoothly. “Pat said, didn’t he – he studies medicine.”

“Medicine!” Ajax exclaimed, as he had done when Patroclus initially said so, and indeed when Achilles mentioned it during training several days before. “Mum and Dad’ll love that. And Pat, you can like… you can read, right?”

“I… yes?”

“Literature,” Achilles supplied. “Pat’s well read. Get Joey to give him a list and he’ll be across whatever you throw at him. And science, of course, goes without saying. He’s studying medicine,” Achilles repeated, and Ajax clasped his glass and raised it victoriously in the air.

“Medicine!” he cried, and Patroclus, bemused, clinked their glasses together.

Ajax swept Patroclus away, then. There was an impromptu inter-college drinking contest, and Achilles suspected Patroclus would need to remind Ajax several times throughout the night that he had agreed to take him on to tutor his brother.

Achilles felt warm, then. _I did a good thing,_ he thought to himself. _I did something good for him. It will be different, now. It can be._

“Who’s that?” came a voice from behind Achilles. Achilles turned to see Graham Odysseus and Thomas Agamemnon freshly come in from the cold, watching Ajax and Patroclus happily lining up for a boat race.

“Is that the famous Pat?” Odysseus prompted. “Surprised he and Ajax are mates.”

Achilles tried to keep his smile subdued. “Yeah, that’s Pat. He –”

“What is he?” Agamemnon asked, his nose creased as if Patroclus was something dirty and unpleasant. “Almost looks like a native –”

“He’s a Pelides,” Achilles snapped. Just like the townie kids. Agamemnon’s family was every bit as wealthy as Achilles’s, and he was just the same as small town hicks. “He’s my cousin, so watch it.”

Odysseus, a law student who hailed from a middle class family, pulled a face. Odysseus was tired of them before the night had even begun.

“Real family resemblance,” Agamemnon remarked.

“ _Cousins,_ ” Achilles said, enunciating the word as if Agamemnon was a toddler. “Not brothers.”

“Still.” Agamemnon shrugged.

“You grew up together, didn’t you? In Phthia, was it?” Odysseus asked, ever the diplomat. Odysseus made no secret of wanting a grand political career, and he seemed to understand that in lieu of family connections, he would need to stroke the egos of his peers. Achilles liked knowing this – liked how he could sense that behind Odysseus’s smile he was cursing them all.

“Yes,” Achilles began, preparing his self indulgent spiel about their idyllic life in the countryside when Agamemnon interrupted.

“Why? Why’d he live with your family?” Agamemnon asked. When Achilles hesitated – how had he neglected to prepare an acceptable answer to that? – Agamemnon smirked. “A scandal?”

“My particular branch of the family tree is better off. We’re the same age and both only children, so Patroclus came to Phthia to be tutored with me. It’s not so difficult to grasp, Tommy,” Achilles muttered.

“I think I’ve seen him around with that _girl_ ,” he observed. “Some sheila on a lady scholarship made it all the way into medicine with that feminist bull –”

“Odysseus is on a scholarship,” Achilles snarled. “You really wanna push on with that?”

Agamemnon recoiled, and Odysseus silently groaned. “Graham’s is for academic merit. _She_ only got in because of what’s between her –”

“Is it jealousy?” Achilles asked with his mother’s smile. He felt almost glad that Agamemnon had got on his nerves. “That Briseis Antony can get a scholarship for being a smart woman, and ‘dysseus can get a full ride for being a bright bloke, but no one hands out grants for being a talentless swine?”

Agamemnon had grown red in outrage. “I don’t need –”

“Why don’t I grab a round?” Odysseus cut in. “Look – your brother’s just arrived, Tommy. We can be civil.”

Achilles rolled his eyes. These were his friends in Melbourne – petty and pompous and tiresome. And there Patroclus was, no longer with Ajax but nonetheless welcomed by a new swarm of uni students, all friendly and eager, slates clean. Achilles watched Patroclus, but at some point Patroclus stopped watching him back.

* * *

Hector Priamides was someone Patroclus imagined Achilles would befriend, upon arriving at the colleges. An Australian Rules football player, the Dean’s son and intelligent to boot, Hector was held in high regard not just in the college, but across campus. Tall with a cheerful smile framed by a neat moustache, Patroclus had no right to expect Hector would ever be his friend. It came as a shock when, at the Alfred, Hector flashed him a grin as he downed a pint of beer, quicker than the boy from Queen’s College.

“You do us proud. Hector, by the way,” Hector said, though Patroclus already knew.

“Pat,” Patroclus replied hesitantly, settling down his empty pint. “You’re Med too?”

“Yup. Third year. You’re fresh?”

“Don’t hold it against me,” Patroclus said, and Hector laughed. Hector had a way of laughing that was pure and boisterous and utterly at ease. It made Patroclus feel warm – warmer, even, than the beer. “I think I saw you at the footy?”

Hector grinned knowingly. “I think I saw you too, Pat.” Conversation came easy for Hector – he spoke fondly of the match, shouted Patroclus a drink and toasted to the ANZACs. He would fly off on a tangent about something and speak with such excitement that Patroclus felt happy to simply sit back and listen, glad when Hector would prompt him for his own half-formed thoughts.

“Nine brothers? Really?” Patroclus asked. He had lost track of his drinks, but he didn’t feel sick and Hector didn’t seem embarrassed of him.

“Mm. That we know of. Catholic,” Hector submitted. “Can’t seem to help ourselves. Say – I saw you arrive at Trinity with another kid. Blonde guy. You seemed close,” Hector prodded, and Patroclus, who hadn’t realised he had his hopes up, felt himself deflate. “A brother, or… good mate?”

“Achilles Pelides,” Patroclus said blandly. It felt like an introduction – people like Hector and Achilles were bound to cross paths, become fast friends. Patroclus glanced around the pub. “He’s around here, somewhere. He’s with the law school. Runs track –”

“Right,” Hector interrupted him not unkindly. “Sounds great. But actually – and forgive me if I’m wrong, I’m dreadful drunk,” he said, though he seemed hardly tipsy, “Actually I thought maybe we have something in common. If the blonde isn’t at all in the way, that is.”

_The blonde_. As if he had seen Achilles, heard his name, and forgotten him already.

“I’m not… I’m not Catholic,” Patroclus stammered.

Hector laughed. “That wasn’t what I was asking.”

“No. He’s not…” Patroclus coughed. “Not anything like that.”

Hector smiled a dazzling smile and, on the bar counter, grazed Patroclus’s fingers with his own. “Just a casual interest,” Hector murmured slowly. “If that suits. It’s not my poison, per se, but I find it takes the edge off.”

“I’ve not… I’m a freshie there too, if you won’t hold it against me,” Patroclus managed.

“Not at all,” Hector said. But then a look of concern crossed his face. “I’ve been very forward. I don’t want you to feel I’ve pressed you to – well.” Suddenly embarrassed, Hector laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Pat. I guess you could say my door is always open, if you’re ever wanting anything.”

Hector gave Patroclus’s shoulder a squeeze, before making to leave.

Hector wanted him.

Patroclus’s mind was sluggish, and it took a moment to compute. In spite of her initial coldness, Briseis had warmed to him and Patroclus increasingly caught her watching him as if his face contained the answer to a question she dare not ask. And Achilles… Achilles would destroy him, decimate him heart and soul and leave nothing at all in his wake.

Hector was not so complicated as love and destruction. Hector was warmth and grins and pleasure. Hector was someone who might touch him and offer him the simplicity of love as an act.

“I don’t know which room is yours,” Patroclus volunteered before Hector was out of earshot. “Maybe you could show me tonight, if you’re not too busy?”

Hector flashed his brilliant white teeth and led Patroclus from the pub onto the dark of the street and back to Trinity.

* * *

The position tutoring Joey Ajax was a godsend, but it left Patroclus rather little time to himself. At seventeen, Joey had the look of a twenty-four year old rugby player, and the intellect of a frustrated thirteen year old. The Ajaxes had Patroclus around to tutor him three times per week and were always generous – they paid him if he went overtime, and often invited him to have dinner. When Patroclus wasn’t in Toorak tutoring Joey, he was in class, or studying, or accosted by Achilles. Hector, when he happened, was always a relief – a dream in the sense of it being transient and pleasurable and of little real consequence.

“I brought wine,” Patroclus said as a greeting, settling himself down on Hector’s bed one evening. It was routine, now; Patroclus would swing by a couple of times a week and they would indulge each other.

“Freshies – eighteen and on the wine like mother’s milk,” Hector said fondly, producing two mismatched glasses from under his bed.

“Nineteen, and it’s been a long day,” Patroclus retorted. “Joey’s mind is a sieve.”

Hector raised an eyebrow. “Nineteen? When was your birthday?”

Patroclus’s weary smile faltered. “January.”

“And you’re nineteen? Did you have a glorious gap year?” Hector asked as he filled each cup to the brim.

“I repeated a year,” Patroclus admitted.

Hector laughed his generous laugh. “I don’t believe that.”

“I ended up living with Achilles when I was thirteen. His birthday’s in November, I’m in January. We were tutored together, so it was decided I’d repeat grade seven to keep us at the same level.” Patroclus chugged the wine and gestured for Hector to pour him another. “Mind, he’s a genius, so it wasn’t as if I was really – you know – _held back_. And I only got to go to uni because of him, so finishing school ahead of him would’ve done me no favours.”

“Shit,” Hector observed sympathetically.

“Mmm.” Patroclus took a large gulp of wine before clocking that Hector wasn’t halfway through his first glass. “Oh – not that it’ll come up, but Achilles isn’t privy to that. I think he just assumes I started late.”

“Our little secret,” Hector agreed. “How’d you wind up with Pelides, if you don’t mind?”

“That’s _my_ little secret,” Patroclus said smoothly.

Hector liked to talk before they got each other off, and Patroclus was happy with that to a point. He enjoyed hearing about Hector’s early experiences with medicine as the son of a renowned surgeon, and Hector was always pleased to share insights about his faith, and how he reconciled it with science and his own proclivities. In exchange, Patroclus summoned fragments of his life in Phthia – the good times. Days spent out bush, or swimming, or working. The best of Achilles and himself – bright cousins with pastures to explore. Hector didn’t need to hear the story of the feral bastard, and the killer stray he took in.

So Patroclus smiled as if he was much drunker than a half bottle of wine, and pressed his lips to Hector’s. Hector didn’t mind kissing Patroclus – he was a good sport about it, and would let it go on for a few minutes (Hector’s body was muscular, and when Patroclus closed his eyes, occasionally his mind would place him in Achilles’s arms). And then they would suck each other off, and Patroclus would return to his own room.

* * *

Hector fucking Priamides.

It made sense that he and Patroclus took up with each other. Hector being handsome and kind and having a taste for men – of fucking course he would sniff out Patroclus.

“Just a taste?” Achilles had asked flatly one day. Patroclus had acted cagey around him for two weeks before he admitted to spending evenings in Hector’s room. Knowing almost made it worse, though. Achilles found himself rapping on Patroclus’s door for no reason at all simply to see if he was in or not. When he wasn’t, he imagined Hector ‘tasting’ his Patroclus and it made him sick.

“He prefers women, but men are convenient,” Patroclus admitted.

“You’re a convenience?” Achilles had sneered miserably from Patroclus’s windowsill, and Patroclus had shrugged.

“I guess so.”

Achilles had carefully engineered meeting Hector. Saint Hector didn’t just fuck Patroclus – no. They had study dates in the library every Friday followed by… by whatever followed. Achilles had no hole in the wall to look through.

“Patroclus,” Achilles had greeted him in the medical library one Friday evening. “I wanted to talk to you about something. But ah – who’s this?”

A distraught post-graduate student whirled around on his chair to shush him, but met with Achilles’s hulking figure and glower, he spun back to his research without fuss.

“Achilles.” Patroclus smiled warily in greeting and made to stand up, but Hector stopped him with a question.

“Patroclus?” Hector asked. “Huh. I always thought ‘Pat’ was short for ‘Patrick’.”

Achilles felt a small victory in that – that Hector didn’t even know his name.

“It’s an odd one,” Patroclus said. “I figured in Melbourne ‘Pat’ would be easiest.”

“But back home they call you Patroclus,” Hector surmised with a note of fondness, as though learning about his ‘convenience’ brought him genuine pleasure. Achilles felt something ugly flare inside of him.

“We do,” he said curtly. “And ‘Pat’ and ‘Bambi’ – because of those big doe eyes of his.”

Patroclus winced, but Hector was nothing if not a gentleman. “Well, ‘Bambi’ might be too much, but I could take ‘Patroclus’ for a spin, if you don’t mind?”

“Alright,” Patroclus agreed, and perhaps he wouldn’t have seen it had he not been looking for it, but Hector squeezed Patroclus’s knee under the desk – as if he needed comfort and protection from Achilles. “What did you need?”

“Well, I’m going to extort Father for a bigger allowance. I know you’re not one to make a push for money, but when he calls, I need you to be onside about Melbourne being on the pricey end. A united front, alright?” Achilles had tried his best to sound blasé about it. Then, turning to Hector, “Achilles Pelides, by the way. Patroclus lived with me and my father before here. Were you Hector?”

“Still am,” Hector said amicably.

As Achilles departed, he heard Hector ask who he was – “Is he a cousin?”

“We’re cousins somewhere along, but I couldn’t tell you exactly. Friends. Brothers, almost.”

“Didn’t seem so friendly,” Hector said.

“No, I suppose not,” Patroclus laughed. “He’s tricky to read, but he doesn’t hate me really.”

Hector shook his head. “I’m under no illusion that he hates you, Patroclus.”

Hector had won that round. Hector won every round, without even knowing there was a game.

From his perch on the windowsill, Achilles angled his face to catch the golden rays of the setting sun. Achilles Pelides was vain, and understood his countenance was made for sunsets and beaches; summer days and barbecues. He wanted Patroclus to watch him.

“I think you could do better than being a convenience for Hector Priamides,” Achilles observed dourly.

“What? Someone might love me?” Patroclus laughed into his textbook. “Of course.”

“Yeah,” Achilles said defensively, folding his arms. “Don’t you want that? Don’t you worry he’s using you?”

“Don’t you worry I’m using him?”

“No, Pat – I don’t worry about Hector Priamides, full stop,” Achilles sniffed. “I think you’re selling yourself short – like with Johnny. Johnny wouldn’t even let you kiss him, and however he justifies it, Hector Priamides is heading up Bible Study when he isn’t fucking around with you, and will sooner rather than later be making litters of little surgeons with some Sunday School girl next door.”

It was impossible to tell if this was coming from Achilles, Patroclus’s best friend, or Achilles, who wanted to make Patroclus hurt. Achilles himself wasn’t sure.

“I’ve loved people before,” Patroclus said carefully, his back still to Achilles. “It makes me miserable. I know Hector doesn’t love me. He isn’t feeling warm and tingly thinking of me. He doesn’t say my name when he’s alone. But he makes me feel good and safe and – and happy, maybe. I’ve never been loved. It’s not something I miss, and I’m not so sure it’s something I can have.”

“Maybe you love Hector,” Achilles said, “if he makes you feel like that.”

“No,” Patroclus said simply.

“What about that… Brie Antony? What about her?” Achilles asked tightly. “I see how she looks at you. It wouldn’t take much.”

“No. No, I don’t want to tie her down. Drop it. I’m not… I can’t… I can’t do it, Achilles.” Patroclus sighed heavily and swivelled around on his chair to look Achilles in the eye. “I don’t want to get into this with you.”

“Would it be the end of the world, Patroclus?” Achilles pressed. “I was clumsy about it at the farm. I was… I was wretched. We should have talked about it when I first… when I crossed the line. We’re beyond due to get into it.”

“If you pursue this, Achilles, our friendship will be rubble,” Patroclus said in a low, measured voice. “Is that what you want?”

Achilles recoiled. “Pat!”

“If we do this now, we can’t undo it, and you won’t like it,” Patroclus said quickly.

“It?”

“Yes.” Patroclus licked his lips. “It won’t be good. It won’t be what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Achilles growled.

“I do,” Patroclus said gently. “And I won’t… I won’t, Achilles. I can’t.”

“Won’t and can’t aren’t the same thing,” Achilles snapped petulantly.

“They are in this.”

Achilles scowled at him. “And if I could be like Hector? Have you as a convenience? Could you make do with me?”

Patroclus felt as though someone had scooped out his insides with a ladle and served them up cold. He found himself unable to speak for a long few seconds.

Achilles’s face softened. “I didn’t mean that and I definitely don’t want it that way. Let me be your friend, as long as you’ll have me. Please.”

Patroclus nodded stupidly, and later, when he was alone, he said Achilles’s name to himself, felt flushed, shuddered at the sensation. And he screamed into his pillow. He imagined loving Achilles, and he saw himself always empty, forever trapping his words in his chest, too dumb to speak, too cautious to ever utter a word. Achilles has words, in this fantasy, and sometimes they are sharp, brutal – but others they are impossibly sweet. Achilles holds him the way he used to with the nightmares and he almost says it – _I love you_. But in this life, he has no voice. In this life, he just lets Achilles have him, the way a stick lets itself be fetched by a dog, the way his mother had let his father have her.

And Achilles would chew him up and spit him out and Patroclus would be absolutely alone in the world.

* * *

When the nightmares came that night, Patroclus sobbed and shuddered and gasped voicelessly outside Achilles’s room. He could not go in – could not seek out Achilles’s love as comfort – but he knew he was allowed. He knew Achilles would be generous with him if he did.

As long as they were friends, Patroclus could take comfort in Achilles’s closed door – he could imagine Achilles’s warmth radiating through it, feel content in the knowledge that the one person who held him in his heart lay sleeping on the other side. Surrender, _I love you_ – passion and touch and heat and fucking and desire… If the door closed after that, Patroclus would not be allowed back in.

_I’ve never been loved. It’s not something I miss, and I’m not so sure it’s something I can have._

That had been a lie, perhaps. Achilles loved him, maybe, in his own terrible way – a way that was as frightening as it was comforting – and he had for some time. And so Patroclus rebuffed him, and sat trembling by a closed door, ear pressed against wood that he might hear Achilles’s breathing over his own treacherous heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, if you've made it to the end of this chapter! I promise it heats up/gets much worse. So please stick around!
> 
> Comments always make my day!


	5. Winter Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Winter Break and Patroclus is invited skiing whilst Achilles spends his break alone in Phthia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> You guys were all so nice about last chapter, so thanks for that <3 Not a lot of Hector in this one, but we get a little of Briseis. This chapter shorter and a bit of a slow down in pace because obv Achilles and Patroclus are apart, but I hope you stick it out!
> 
> I don't think it's hugely relevant, but Aussie winter is June, July, August (winter break usually falling across some of June/July). Just in case you're wondering where Christmas is.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Patroclus accepted an invitation to spend the winter break with friends for a ski trip, Achilles knew he had no one but himself to blame. It would have been stupidly easy to pressure Patroclus to return home to Phthia, but somehow he hadn’t pushed the right buttons.

“You don’t think your father will be annoyed I’m not coming back for winter break, do you?” Patroclus had asked him nervously before the end of exams. All Achilles needed to say was ‘yes’. A ‘maybe’ would have sufficed. A short spiel about how ‘y’know, he does pay your fees and all – it might be a good gesture’ – which was true – would have done it.

Instead, Achilles had opted for, “Father hardly cares if _I_ come home. You’re an occupation and an expense, both of which he has plenty. He won’t notice you’re gone.”

Patroclus had given him a hard look. _An occupation_. An occupation for his restless son. Achilles would have to be an idiot to think Patroclus wouldn’t pick that up. “And you don’t need me to keep you occupied during break?” he drawled.

Achilles was an idiot, and that was why he spent the winter couped up in Phthia, his favourite place in the world made impossibly boring and isolated because his favourite person in the world was skiing with friends while he spent his evenings drinking with his father.

* * *

Briseis’s family was, to everyone’s surprise, as wealthy as they come. Old money, well cared for and not flashed around, she had a decent ski lodge at Mount Buller. So it was that the Melbourne Uni crew were split between a hired lodge and Briseis’s digs.

“You’re good on the slopes,” Briseis said tiredly at the end of the first week. Several other women from the medical faculty were staying in Briseis’s lodge, and Patroclus was something of a chaperone – Briseis’s indulgent parents marginally preferred Patroclus’s presence than having a group of young women alone in the mountains.

“Not as good as you,” Patroclus said with a grin from beside her on the plush red sofa. “You and Hector put us all to shame.”

He hadn’t been bad, though. Patroclus had to fight to reign in how pleased he was – he had always been unremarkable compared to Achilles, but it dawned on Patroclus that Achilles set the standard rather high. Among his peers, Patroclus occasionally thrived.

“For a beginner, you’re more than adequate. It’s nice that you stay with the girls – I find myself racing off, sometimes. You keep an eye out. The girls are starting to ask me about you, you know.”

“Everyone’s been good to me,” Patroclus supplied. “And they won’t let me step foot in the kitchen. Least I can do is keep a watch out.”

“You’re too good, Patroclus. Too, too good.”

Briseis’s smile slipped a little as she poured herself another glass of wine. Assurances had been made that not a drop of alcohol was to be consumed in the lodge. Patroclus was hardly going to rat the girls out, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of drinking there – imagined how shameful it would be if he, their supposed chaperone, pissed himself from drunkenness.

“I’m no fun, you mean?” Patroclus prodded playfully.

Briseis frowned. “Perhaps.” She licked her lips. “I want to be a doctor, not a doctor’s wife,” Briseis said quietly, parroting her own cool jibe at Patroclus. “I’d rather be a doctor’s wife, maybe, than an accessory for someone like Ajax or Agamemnon or Achilles. That’s what my parents want. Not those three particularly,” she amended. “In fact, they’d have a fit about Agamemnon. But that sort.”

“Maybe you’ll be no man’s wife,” Patroclus supplied gently.

Briseis blinked at him for a few seconds before erupting into a melodious stream of unselfconscious laughter. By the fire, her face seemed impossibly warm and open. “What about you, Pat?”

“I’ll be no man’s wife, I suspect,” he said dryly.

“Your prospects. ‘Achilles’s cousin’ – what does that mean? I can’t tell if you’re prince or pauper.”

“Are you feeling me out for marriage?” asked Patroclus.

“Everyone else is,” Briseis retorted, but there was a seriousness about her.

“I’m not sure what it means either,” Patroclus said. He wanted to be Briseis’s friend. Hector was a good mate, but they kept things light, for the most part – every cloud on the horizon was something to be dispersed so far as Hector was concerned. Briseis opened up to him, sometimes. Told him how she often hung around with the girls from Nursing, and sometimes dreamed of dropping out of Medicine and joining them to be somewhere she wouldn’t stick out and cop flack. Agamemnon himself sneered at the women in Medicine and Law, but happily ogled and flirted with the ladies studying Nursing or Teaching. Patroclus shivered a little. “Truth is, Achilles isn’t my cousin so much as people imagine. Our dads weren’t brothers. I just had nowhere else to go, and Achilles’s father did the honourable thing and took me on. I never know how far the generosity will stretch – Achilles makes my case for me, usually. He got me into uni, secured me a decent allowance. If Mr Pelides dies, Achilles will probably get to decide if I get an inheritance. So,” Patroclus mused, “you can ask Achilles about my prospects, I suppose.”

Briseis’s face pinched in concentration, her tipsy brain making a valiant attempt at synthesising the information. “Nowhere else to go?”

“I was disowned,” Patroclus said quietly. “I was almost thirteen. There was an accident with another kid and… It was bad.” Patroclus winced. “I suppose that counts against me, prospects wise.”

There was more to it – the story. There were things he could not tell her – things he hadn’t told Achilles and tried not to recall himself – but he didn’t want her pity. He only wanted her to know a little of him, and perhaps for her to understand he wasn’t worth settling for.

“Is that why you make time for him? Achilles, that is. Because he calls the shots?” Briseis asked, her voice low. “I always thought he… He’s different to you. Not in a good way.”

Patroclus recoiled. “I – no. No. I understand maybe I’ve given you that impression, but Christ – no. He’s my best mate. I love him,” he admitted. He looked at his pact scar and licked his lips. “We’re like brothers. My position… He’s always been very decent, that way. Always looked out for me, made sure I was taken care of.”

“Yes,” Briseis agreed tersely. “I got that. We were… friends before I let you know my family was the type to have a ski lodge and the odd Faberge lying around. I did it on purpose, and our… our friendship is stronger for it. It sounds like Achilles has always owned your future. Would you like him, if you weren’t reliant upon him for your livelihood?”

It was an odd thing to imagine a world where they were only two boys – he and Achilles as equals. A world where Patroclus hadn’t feared his expulsion from Phthia should he make one wrong move. An existence reliant upon the father’s charity rather than the son’s. Would they still be friends?

Briseis looked doubtful, and Patroclus understood why; seeing this symbiotic relationship, she imagined it was all that kept them together. But Patroclus knew with peculiar clarity that this wasn’t the case.

“I think it keeps us apart,” Patroclus murmured. “We can’t shake it – the… the strange dynamic that’s developed between us. In a way we both want to, but both of us… He wants to be closer, and I… I love him,” Patroclus said again, and it sounded more damning this time – his voice broken like a heart breaks. “It destroys us.”

Achilles tried to ignore it, but that part of their relationship could not be severed from the rest; Patroclus had always indulged Achilles, and to what extent these indulgences were due to his own affection as opposed to a payment of debt was indeterminable.

Patroclus often remembered that day on the back paddock.

_Is that what you are, Patroclus? You’re useful?_

Achilles had been hurt. Achilles had imagined their relationship was only a transaction and had felt his small world implode.

Briseis sighed heavily, and Patroclus forced himself to smile. “So I’m the pauper, I suppose,” he surmised.

“A prince among men,” she countered. Tentatively, she took Patroclus’s hand in her own. “I would try, if you would,” Briseis said in a low, meaningful voice.

Patroclus had dreaded this. A treacherous part of him relished Briseis’s misplaced affection for him – celebrated the idea that he was lovable. That Hector took him aside and loved his body, and Briseis sat with him by the fire and loved his mind and heart. Hector delighted in his lot, but it had always been a possibility that Briseis might come to want more from him.

Patroclus squeezed Briseis’s hand before placing it tenderly back in her lap. “Don’t settle for me –”

“I’ve offended you with talk of –”

“I’m not offended,” Patroclus assured her. He swallowed. “You would be settling for me because I have no money of my own. You would be settling for me because of what I did to end up in Phthia – there’s scandal in it, and it isn’t buried so deep that it can’t be dug up. But most of all you would be settling for me because I… I don’t love you as I should.”

“Oh.” Briseis jolted away as if his words had burned her. “I’ve misread things. I’m sorry.”

“Never apologise to me,” Patroclus said hurriedly. He inched a little closer to Briseis and placed his hand so it covered hers. “I would be unimaginably lucky to have you, Brie.”

“Is there someone else?” she asked numbly. “One of the girls? Have I been blind?”

“Someone else…” Patroclus closed his eyes and saw Achilles’s wicked grin with his crooked incisors and glimmering green eyes filled with mischief and joy and cruelty. Briseis and Hector had his heart and mind and body. Those were playthings for Achilles. Achilles Pelides had Patroclus’s soul. “I love him,” Patroclus said blandly – the third time that night, but now it was impossible to imagine he meant a mate or brother.

“ _Oh_ ,” Briseis breathed. On reflex she stole her hand away, only to think better of the gesture and replace it so her fingers overlapped with Patroclus’s. “I… alright.”

“It’s not… We’re not… And we won’t, Brie. It’s nothing like that. It’s impossible. I only… that’s why I can’t have you settle for me. Do you see?”

Briseis nodded quickly, before pouring herself another tall glass of wine. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” she asked, her eyes now set on avoiding his. “There’s a glass and a half in the bottle, and I promise I won’t open another before we turn in.”

Patroclus took the bottle without a word and they drank in quiet until the bottle was empty and their eyelids heavy. For the next week, Briseis would put a distance between them and Patroclus gave her space. But he persisted, and by the end of the trip the wound dealt by his rejection was only a tender ache in their friendship.

* * *

“’s nice Bambi’s got himself some friends,” Achilles’s father murmured to the fireplace, sipping idly from a glass of scotch.

Achilles father wasn’t a drunk – nor a gambler or whoremonger – no. Achilles’s father indulged in a broad variety of vices all in moderation. This meant nips of liquor in the evenings that made his memory charmingly unreliable, the odd game of cards with well connected men, and regular trips out of town for lays. Patroclus hadn’t known about that – that Achilles’s father’s ‘business trips’ were often in aid of his cock. Patroclus had a tendency to take people at their best.

“I don’t see him as much,” Achilles confessed quietly. In Phthia, Patroclus had always returned to him no matter what awful thing he had done. Achilles had fewer vices than his father, but he hadn’t the same knack for moderation – perhaps it would come with time. “He’s still my best friend. I don’t know that I’m his.”

“He deserves some luck. I worried about our little Bambi – and you, mind. What with how he came here and the two of you becoming mates so quick.” Father hiccupped and hummed to himself.

Achilles frowned. “Patroclus was never dangerous,” he said with an edge of reprimand. “That other boy – he didn’t mean it. He’s never hurt me and I’ve… I’ve not always behaved myself with him.”

Father brushed that aside, as with everything. Achilles had once pondered what Patroclus wouldn’t let him get away with. Alone in Phthia, Achilles’s mind sometimes drifted back to their last summer. What, he wondered, would it have taken for Father to properly pull him up? Achilles thought of the night with the bedpost… if Patroclus had have gone sobbing to Father about it, would Achilles have suffered so much as a slap on the wrist? But as it was, Patroclus had not so much as mentioned the evening in question since they left for Melbourne.

“No, no. I meant with how Chiron found him. Dreadful – and my own cousin. Christ. But taking him in – didn’t want you exposed in case, well…” When Achilles looked blankly back at him, Peleus muffled a belch and set his glass down. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Achilles’s father shook his head, and Achilles felt the warmth of the drink and the fire and the burning need to know.

“Know _what_?” he demanded.

“If Bambi’s not mentioned it, then it’s –”

“Father.” Achilles leaned closer to his father, pleading. “Father, there are things he can’t say, can’t talk about. I want to make it better. I want to be good for him.”

And although he knew it was wrong and that it was Patroclus’s secret to tell and his son had hurt little Bambi a terrible amount, Peleus surrendered with a sigh. “You know about Bambi pushing the other boy, and that he broke his skull on a nearby rock and died? Bambi told you?”

“Yes. He told me that.”

“Well, after that was a bad time for our Bambi. My cousin is quick with a fist. The other family was paid off and Bambi wasn’t sent to gaol – but there’s a shame in it, my boy – such a thing… and my cousin was ashamed of his son.” Father closed his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, and Achilles worried he would drift off to sleep, but he continued tiredly, “We’ll never know to what degree he really meant it. Bambi said he thought he’d been drinking. Not long after all the trouble about the boy and the rock, my drunk cousin threw a length of rope already tied in a noose to his son and told him to make him proud.” Achilles felt his throat run dry. “So little Bambi went out bush with his rope, and he was going to do it. But he was a boy of twelve, and sat at the base of a tree crying for most of the day. Then Chiron found him. He was studying the flora in the area. He managed to calm Bambi down, got some of the story. I’m the only relation Patroclus knew of, so Chiron made contact. We got Bambi, you got a tutor, and Chiron made a study of the botany in Phthia.” Father hiccupped again and wiped his nose. “I worried he’d bring you down. And if you lost him – between what his father asked him to do and the death of the boy, I worried he might hurt himself. But all was fine, and he was a good little companion for you, in the end.”

Achilles would blame it on the scotch later, but he felt himself begin to weep. “You let me be so bad to him,” he whispered. “I was awful. I was mean and selfish. You let me hurt him.”

Peleus shrugged. “Bambi let himself be hurt.”

Achilles left, marching himself to Patroclus's room where he had spent most nights since returning to Phthia. Father had surely noticed, but he hadn't felt it necessary to call Achilles out on it. It was like sleeping with a ghost - there were traces of Patroclus's scent in the room in spite of the housekeeper keeping everything frustratingly clean and laundered, but mostly Achilles clung to the sensation of knowing that this was Patroclus's place. This was where Patroclus had been every night, and this was where he should be still, and if he were there - where he ought to be - he would be in Achilles's arms.

Achilles thought of that conversation all break - replayed it in his mind on repeat. He imagined how well he was going to treat Patroclus – how nice he would be. Maybe he would make friends with Hector. Perhaps he would tell Patroclus how glad he was that Chiron had found him and brought him home. He wouldn’t prod and poke and try to force a confession from Patroclus – no. Achilles imagined telling Patroclus how he loved him, not needing Patroclus to surrender. _I just want you to know_ , he imagined saying. _It doesn’t matter if your feelings aren’t there yet. I want you to know that I have always loved you and love you every day._

But winter break ended, and when Semester Two came and he spotted Patroclus with Hector, all his best intentions melted to nothing and the need for Patroclus to want him back choked all the nice things he envisioned himself saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always make my day <3


	6. Semester Two: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles at parties, a study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry for the late update!
> 
> This chapter is not top quality, but I promise we're going somewhere. Initially it didn't exist, but there's some exposition in here that needed to happen, and somehow rather than being tacked onto next chapter, we got a whole other chapter.

Phthia was too small of a town for the local school to host any sort of annual dance. Instead, the feeder town about an hour and a half out invited the youth of Phthia and several other communities to join them for a spring social every September. There were flyers up around town, in ’57, and Achilles had seen Patroclus’s curiosity.

They didn’t get out much, the two of them. There was the odd trip to Melbourne over school holidays, but Achilles’s father travelled alone for the most part for business and pleasure – Patroclus was an off-cast, and Achilles a roll of the dice as to whether he would be charming or psychotic. The boys had grown somewhat aware of their own isolation – that even the townie kids were better socialised than they were. It was only as Patroclus read and re-read the flyer outside the green grocer that it occurred to Achilles that he might be able to remedy this, if only a little.

 _Y’know, I could drive us up,_ Achilles probed. _We can’t drink, but we could go. Father’ll be out of town._

 _Don’t you think you’ll get bored?_ Patroclus had asked. Achilles understood immediately – a dance wasn’t something that would bore Patroclus, but Patroclus worried Achilles would sit on the sidelines, cruel and judgemental of their peers.

_No. No, if you’ll come, we should have an alright time._

So they had gone to the spring social the following week, and Achilles had felt his stomach drop as they entered the hastily decorated high school gym and Patroclus eyed all the new people who might take up space in his heart. Achilles had almost done exactly what Patroclus feared he would do – yanked at his elbow and marched him back to the beat up Ford ( _Paper decorations and the smell of sweat – let’s give it a miss_ ) – but Achilles felt something unclench in him as Patroclus smiled.

Achilles hated that other people could do that – make Patroclus happy when he couldn’t – but he also hated how unhappy Patroclus often was. Achilles only wanted Patroclus, and if he had him, he would be content at last. Patroclus had Achilles (surely he knew that), and he still wasn’t fulfilled. Patroclus still wanted others.

It was as it had been at the town fete years ago. People watched Achilles – averted their gaze when Achilles looked up, grew uncomfortable when they sensed his aloofness. Patroclus was no social magnet, but he made people feel comfortable. Townie kids from miles around relished in Patroclus’s easy smiles and supportive nods of acknowledgement. People understood Patroclus was human, and that Achilles was the same strange breed as his mother.

 _Don’t you think he even looks a little like Tab Hunter?_ Patroclus had said to a pair of sisters – Edith and Glenys – as he gestured at Achilles. The girls had flushed pink – Hunter’s ‘Young Love’ was being crooned out by the band – and nodded hesitantly in agreement.

 _Pat’s my biggest fun,_ Achilles had said almost apologetically to the two girls. _I could pass for Tab Hunter after a pub brawl._ Achilles gestured at his strong Roman nose with its slight bump and flashed a wink that had made Glenys malfunction.

Nothing remarkable had happened that night – Achilles kept himself in check, and when they waltzed back to the Ford at the end of the evening, nothing was drastically changed. But they had had a nice time. Achilles would have never willingly attended the dance on his own, and would ordinarily have found no pleasure dancing with small town girls, but Patroclus had been happy. Patroclus sometimes cracked up in classes, and grinned as they explored Mount Pelion and Pocock Creek, and this was just the same as that, really – it was another kind of happy that Achilles could give him. It involved other people – who were tiresome and forgettable – but Achilles remembered the way Patroclus had looked at him. Like he was the sun.

A Saturday evening in ’59, Achilles found himself in the inner eastern suburb of Kew in a gaudy mansion celebrating the double-engagement of Tommy and Mickey Agamemnon to half-sisters Kitty and Helen Tyndareus (daughters of a newspaper magnate). Where the spring social had comprised of sunburnt country kids in cotton dresses and denim jeans looking for a good time, the Agamemnon-Tyndareus union was marked by cocktails, unoffensive music and everyone’s finest garments as the old private school set assessed their own prospects. The entire affair was disturbing, and almost made Achilles pleased that he would never be drawn into the world of wealth inbreeding.

“Come on, Pelides – it’s not so bad,” Odysseus assured him merrily. Odysseus was Achilles’s companion for the evening, and he was in his element in the high ceilinged dining room of the Tyndareus estate. Many of the city’s most influential were in attendance, and this was an opportunity to network with important men and, even better, important women. “Opportunities abound.”

“You can take my share,” Achilles drawled.

“If I could, I would. What did Mickey do to woo Helen, anyway? Tommy’s batting above. Is that the trick around here – stomp around like a toddler and occasionally shell out some money?” Odysseus asked. This was the world he yearned to enter, and it pleased Achilles that Odysseus felt at least a little repulsed by it.

Achilles glanced up and caught Helen’s eye. Mickey was a tall red-head with a slightly uneasy disposition and a tendency to look to Tommy to affirm his every thought. Helen Tyndareus was a bombshell – no two ways about it – and her family was superior to Mickey’s (albeit, not by very much). With plump lips and round breasts and a perfect tumble of blonde hair, Helen could have plucked the name of any man from the air and whispered it, and Achilles felt certain he would come running. Or, any man with an interest in lips and tits and hair would. Achilles suppressed a grin, thinking of Patroclus as he had been at the spring social – his lean frame, his sweat-drenched hair, his rare smile. Achilles tore his gaze away from exquisite, unsmiling Helen.

“The rich toddler routine hasn’t worked for Ajax yet,” Achilles observed. Ajax was fun to watch, at least. No one was more hopeless with women – the second introductions were through, he turned bright pink and choked on his own tongue. The girls tried their best with him, but he always fell back in with the blokes and threw back a drink or two to forget his failures and, hopefully, loosen him up for the next round of socialising. By the end of the night, he would no doubt be passed out and hardly have managed a word to any of the women. “You tried it one with Brie Antony? Almost as pretty as Helen and not engaged to your mate.” Achilles gestured subtly at Briseis, who seemed to have been invited as a friend of the Tyndareuses.

“Thought she was Pat’s girl?”

“No. They’re only friends,” Achilles said.

“It wouldn’t work – I think she wants nothing to do with men in general, maybe, except for Pat,” Odysseus observed. Briseis, who had come along with her parents, kept getting absorbed into the same conversation repeated on loop ( _How’s mum? Dad? Medicine – a rebellious phase. Modern women…_ ) and Achilles enjoyed watching her patience wear thin.

“Marry one of _them_ ,” Achilles suggested. Helen and Kitty had invited along a half-dozen female cousins. Achilles caught them looking his way a few times, but Odysseus was not a bad second place, and he was good with words and wanted what they were offering. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Do you know them?” Odysseus asked, bemused.

“No. But it shouldn’t be difficult.”

It wasn’t.

Patroclus was better with people generally, but these were Achilles’s people. With his hokey upbringing and strong arms and pretty face (and, importantly, his last name and all it promised), first impressions were a breeze. Not unlike Helen, Achilles could take his pick. If Achilles proposed early enough, he could trap one – charm and money dulled the senses of the elite when it came to sensing danger, and it took Melbourne high flyers a little longer to nut out what Phthian children understood on instinct.

“Graham’s actually top for advocacy,” Achilles said after a round of brief introductions with the young women. “He outdid me in the Constitutional moot.”

“They asked you very advanced questions,” Odysseus said modestly.

“Just the same. Look – I actually have to go fetch something, but could you ladies look after Graham for me? Don’t let him get lost, will you?” Achilles said with a grin that managed to be devilish without being terrifying, and the ladies teetered at his bland humour.

The something he fetched was Briseis, who had fallen once again into the same looped conversation, but this time with a man in his fifties who was all but drooling on the cucumber sandwiches as he looked between Briseis’s face, and two things a little lower than her face. Briseis wore an uneasy expression – as if she knew exactly what was happening, but was too stunned to make a graceful exit.

“Briseis?” he asked, pitching his voice as that of an old friend. “I haven’t seen you since last semester. Sorry to steal her away – we have a lot to catch up on,” Achilles drawled, silencing the man mid sentence and leading Briseis away to a quieter corner of the room. “That,” Achilles said, dropping any hint of charm he had offered Helen and Kitty’s guests, “was my good deed of the century. No ring on his finger – you were a goner.”

Briseis wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t _say_ anything off-colour.”

Achilles laughed. “He reminded me of my father.”

“How should I take that?”

“Take it that he was a lech. People think you’re Pat’s girl – can’t let ‘em think Pat’s girl is getting caught up with shady characters.”

Briseis, who had seemed at least a little amused, abruptly scowled. “I’m not Pat’s girl,” she said with a lick of contempt that rubbed Achilles up the wrong way.

“Well, fuck – don’t get offended about it. Pat’s a catch,” Achilles said harshly, all his good breeding and manners evaporated.

Briseis winced, before taking a dainty sip of her wine and leaning back against the wall behind them. “I know. That wasn’t… It’s only that we’re really just friends.”

Achilles shrugged. “Right.”

“Would you… _want_ me to date Pat?” Briseis asked, not meeting his eyes.

Achilles had been glad when Patroclus had insisted he had an assignment to work on and couldn’t make Agamemnon’s party. Patroclus _was_ a catch, dead boy or not, and just as Achilles might have fooled one of the young women into loving him with a smile and flattery, Patroclus’s earnestness and decent looks might have found their mark. Hell, Odysseus had been talking politics to a tall brunette for the past ten minutes, and the girl had stars in her eyes. The spring social had been one thing, but Patroclus had needed to return to Achilles at the end of the night. He had sung along to the radio as Achilles drove them along the long country roads. He had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, and Achilles had sat with him in silence for ten minutes idle in the driveway imagining what it would be to wake Patroclus with the press of his lips. What would Achilles have done if Patroclus had come to Tommy’s party only to find someone capable of offering him a woman’s love and a good life?

Achilles threw back a flute of champagne. “Pat’s complicated, not for everyone. His situation is more nuanced than most people know.” If Achilles needed to be withstood, Patroclus needed to be understood.

“I know something about that,” Briseis admitted.

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You reckon?”

Briseis cast her gaze down. “Not all of it, but I know he didn’t go to Phthia just to be your playmate. I know he had nowhere else to go.”

“Poor Pat, huh?” Achilles said flatly. “Don’t pity him. He’s well educated, good looking and a Pelides with Pelides prospects. He had ‘nowhere else to go’,” Achilles said, crudely mimicking Briseis’s words, “except a country manor where he was afforded every tool he needs to get by in high society. Anyone with half a brain would take Pat over Tommy or Mickey, and anyone with half a heart would pick him over me. Just so you know.”

“I don’t look down on Pat,” Briseis said, clearly irritated.

“Well good, because you’ve no right to.”

Briseis heaved a sigh of agitation, but Achilles supposed his hostile company was marginally preferable to re-entering conversations about how modern and marriageable she might be with a degree ( _But have you considered Classics or Art History? Better dinner time conversation than Anatomy)_.

“Do you suppose Pat gave this a miss because of Hector? I invited him, and he said you had too, but he insisted on something about a project…”

Achilles stiffened. “What about Hector?”

“Well, they’re friends, aren’t they?”

“And what would Hector need with Pat on a Saturday night?” Achilles asked.

Briseis frowned. “Well… ah. You’re probably not tuned in with Melbourne gossip,” she said. She looked about the room and rolled her eyes. “The whole double engagement is a bit of a joke. Helen and Paris Priamides have always been… too close for comfort. Paris is Hector’s younger brother – or, one of them. An Arts student – a looker. The Priamides family is respected, but ten sons plus the girls… They’ll have to get by on their merits, because their inheritance will be a pittance each, really. And Hector will make something of himself, and Paris has a decent mind and a better face, but Paris was snubbed by Mr Tyndareus, and that was that. So maybe Pat only meant not to offend Hector.”

“How considerate of him,” Achilles remarked darkly, finding himself another flute of champagne and taking it like a shot.

“Well, it _is_ a farce,” Briseis muttered. “Mickey’s smitten, and Helen has always liked the attention, but Tommy and Kitty… Kitty thinks she can tame him. She’s a fool – Tommy isn’t some badboy rogue in need of a woman’s touch. He’s beastly, and the girls who think there’s something beneath it all end up finding out that he’s incapable of thinking of anyone but himself. But I suppose he’s your friend.”

Achilles smirked. “Graham’s okay. Mickey is tolerable. Ajax is amusing, for the most part. If Tommy choked on an olive pit and died tonight, I would laugh.”

“And Pat?”

“Pat wouldn’t laugh,” Achilles offered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Then, “Pat’s the best man I know, and he had the right idea giving this party a miss – it’s not our scene. I’m gonna call a cab back to uni. You wanna come?”

“My parents are around here somewhere. They’ll drive me.”

“Suit yourself.”

Leaving Odysseus in the care of Penelope, who had somehow still seemed interested in Graham's political babbling, Achilles spared a look at Helen before he exited the party. She, who could have anyone, could not have the one she wanted. Helen absorbed Mickey’s attention and praise the way a black sweater absorbs the sun’s heat, but she looked at its source with indifference. What Mickey gave her – what every man gave her – would never be enough so long as Paris held her heart. Basking in attention and breaking hearts was, to Helen, akin to treading water at sea – monotonous, but preferable to drowning. Catching her eye, Achilles threw her a wink, and Helen’s pretty lips pulled up into a smirk.

* * *

Achilles felt flushed and out of his mind as he exited the cab and hastily marched towards Patroclus’s room. The thought that Patroclus might be with Hector – that he might have refused Achilles’s invitation to fuck around with _Hector_ – maddened him. So when Achilles knocked frantically at the door only to have it swung open whilst his knuckles were suspended mid-air, Achilles wasn’t to blame for the delirious laugh of relief that escaped him as he sagged against Patroclus’s doorframe.

“Christ – Achilles, are you drunk?” Patroclus asked. He looked tired and a little cranky in his glasses and nightclothes, his long, slender fingers inkstained from an evening of study.

“A little,” Achilles murmured, affecting a slur. Achilles had had no more than four drinks throughout the evening, but if Patroclus thought he was drunk, perhaps he would indulge him a little. Patroclus had always had a soft spot for the weak and lowly.

“Do you need something?” Patroclus asked, running an impatient hand through his hair.

“Let me in?”

“I really do have an assignment –”

“I’ll be quiet,” Achilles mumbled, and he shouldered passed Patroclus to sit by the bed. “The party was boring.”

“Were you expecting it’d be a lark?”

“I forgot how boring parties are without you to keep me company.” Achilles closed his eyes. “Briseis was there. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to pick a fight with Briseis –”

“I was a gentleman,” Achilles said. “Cross my heart.” Achilles couldn’t see Patroclus’s face – just the hunch of his back as he busied himself with diagrams. “Briseis mentioned you told her how you ended up in Phthia,” Achilles prodded, watching as Patroclus startled upright in his chair. “I didn’t realise things were so serious as that.”

“I didn’t. I just… I don’t know. Sorry.”

“You had ‘nowhere else to go’ –”

“Achilles, I said I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just mean... I don’t want anyone to think you aren’t cared for, because I care for you. Do you remember old Millie’s wedding?” Achilles asked.

“We didn’t go, Achilles,” Patroclus reminded him patiently.

“No. No, because you weren’t allowed to. There is nowhere you aren’t allowed to go anymore. I know, I know – you actually had a project to do. But you could have come, otherwise. Do you understand?”

“You just said it was boring.”

“Will I have to throw you an engagement party one day, Pat? Watch everyone couple off?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not so bad,” Achilles murmured.

“You said you’d be quiet if I let you in,” Patroclus reminded him, though there was good humour in it.

“I wish I could help you.”

“Well, Medicine is beyond your jurisdiction, I suppose,” Patroclus teased. “Of course, I know nothing about the law except what you tell me.”

“And I won’t regale you tonight because you’re busy. I’ll go. Kiss me goodnight?”

Achilles flashed Patroclus his merriest, drunkest smile, and Patroclus seemed to let his guard down just a little. He stood up and wandered over to Achilles’s spot on the floor, offering a hand up.

“C’mon, mate,” Patroclus murmured tenderly, and Achilles half wondered if Patroclus wouldn’t walk him to his room (if Achilles pissed himself, would Patroclus wash him and mumble reassurances?). Achilles took Patroclus’s hand and hoisted himself up and, to his surprise, Patroclus pulled him into an embrace as if to steady him, and pressed his lips chastely against Achilles’s jaw. “Now go to bed, Achilles.”

Achilles felt it, then. The lurch of need – a want that had long since burrowed into his bones. Achilles took Patroclus’s face in his hands and watched Patroclus’s smile fall, his eyes widen – it wouldn’t be much if Achilles leaned forward and stole a kiss. Just a few inches. He could feel Patroclus’s breath… It would only be a taste – a sip of what Johnny had spat out, a nip of Hector’s indulgence.

_Just one kiss from your sweet lips_

_Will tell me that you love is real_

_And I can feel that it's true…_

Achilles pressed the pad of his thumb against Patroclus’s lips and exhaled a laugh at the thought of murmuring the lyrics of Tab Hunter’s horrendous love song into Patroclus mouth.

“You aren’t in your right mind,” Patroclus said quietly. He swallowed, and Achilles’s eyes landed on his throat. Patroclus had a delicate neck with a protruding Adam’s apples, and he imagined what it would be to press down against it, make Patroclus gasp and beg. He imagined biting into Patroclus’s flesh and trailing purple marks down the column of his throat so that Patroclus would have to cover his graceful neck with scarves or turtlenecks (forgivable in the winter chill).

“Have I ever been in my right mind?” said Achilles, his voice coarse.

Patroclus looked frightened, then. Patroclus had once moaned for him in his room, wanton and needy and… and loving. But their youth had been only each other – and then Johnny, and now Hector, and possibly _girls_. Achilles had only been a stand in. Making do. A night time fantasy Patroclus vanquished in waking hours.

“You like Briseis and Hector better than me,” Achilles said, a pitiful accusation.

“Achilles…”

“Am I still your favourite?”

Achilles thought of his mother, who liked him without loving him. _I would kill for you, I think. But I wouldn’t die for you_ … It was an impossible test to implement – it would be far simpler if Patroclus would only surrender the words – but in the mean time Achilles tortured him, humiliated him and tried to interpret Patroclus’s endurance as love.

“Achilles…” Patroclus relaxed a little. “Of course you are.” He hesitated. “You’re in a funny mood. You really can stay if you can keep quiet while I work.”

“No, I’ll be alright. Good luck with your assignment.”

“Goodnight, Achilles.”

It is a well established concept in property law that something might be owned without being possessed, and vice versa. Possession requires two things – the intention to possess, and the exercise of control. Perhaps Achilles owned Patroclus – he had practically been a Christmas present – but Achilles felt his control slipping. What would it mean to possess Patroclus?

To hold him?

Kiss him?

To fuck him?

Achilles laughed to himself – did that make Hector an adverse possessor, a squatter?

Achilles made it to his room and sat himself down on his stiff single bed and found the envelope of pictures he had developed in secret – souvenirs of his lewdest act of control. Achilles stroked himself to the pictures he had taken of Patroclus impaled and spread and afraid and desperate for him – concrete evidence of his control and of Patroclus’s enduring him. But when he came, and his mind quietened, Achilles saw Patroclus asleep, content and at ease in the Ford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Your comments really do brighten my day <3


	7. Semester Two: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fester and rupture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> An on time update! It's a little short, but enjoy!

Semester quickly settled into a pattern, and all was as it had been. Patroclus was no less close to Hector – always study dates and late nights and Patroclus in the crowds of his footy matches – and Achilles only saw Patroclus when he cornered him. Achilles would hunt him down around the college and Patroclus would agree to whatever he asked – dinner, a walk, a trip to the shops – as if bound to him. As if Achilles was an obligation he was too honourable to shirk.

They were drifting. Since Achilles was twelve he had felt they were being pulled ever closer together, destined to collide, but now… now Johnny was in the army, and Agamemnon and Mickey were engaged, and Odysseus was smitten by Penelope, and Patroclus was grown up and had Briseis and Hector and Medicine, and Achilles had nothing. He felt little for his friends, and Law was cold and tedious, and day by day Patroclus strayed a little farther from his side.

 _You’re helping him get into uni?_ Mr Chiron had asked sceptically when Achilles had demanded a glowing reference for Patroclus’s applications.

 _Of course,_ Achilles had muttered. _His grand plan is to save up working at the farm. You reckon that’s fair?_

_No. Have you cleared this with Mr Pelides?_

Achilles had felt a heat in his cheeks. It had been stupid. Mr Chiron knew what Achilles had done to Patroclus on the paddock, but it embarrassed Achilles to think he might know something of his need to Patroclus.

 _Not yet,_ Achilles had admitted. _I think we both might stand a shot for Melbourne Uni._

Chiron had frowned, his head cocked to the side. _You stand quite a good chance for Oxford, the way I heard it._

_Yes. But if I go to Oxford, Pat won’t be allowed to come and he might be stuck here until he can save up. If I go to Melbourne, Father might send him up as company. Do you see?_

_I… I think I do,_ Chiron had said slowly. He _had_ seemed to understand, but the crease between his brows held firm. _Pelides… Are you doing this for yourself, or because you really think it’s unfair Patroclus would have to work a year or two?_

Achilles had scowled at the question, and his fingertips sought out the initials he had carved into the underside of the desk years prior. _You’re right,_ Achilles had said stiffly. _It’s all for me, and it’s best I leave Pat to rot._

_Pelides!_

Achilles had sucked in a breath and exhaled long and heavy, rolling his eyes. _What does it matter why I’m asking it? You want Pat to go to uni? Then write him something good. I can handle Father and Pat._

Achilles hadn’t understood why the question got his back up – why he hadn’t wanted to answer it. What was good for him and what was good for Patroclus had been in alignment, so what did his motivations matter?

Looking back, Achilles wondered if Chiron hadn’t seen this – Patroclus leaving him behind. Perhaps it had been obvious from the outside that Patroclus was only humouring him, and would find others in a big city. What did Chiron imagine Achilles would do? Have Patroclus cut off? Hurt him as he had in Phthia? Chiron had been right, of course – Achilles _had_ engineered their tertiary studies so he might have Patroclus a few more years – but cutting Patroclus off wasn’t an option, and if he could hurt him just right, perhaps he would do it, but just as likely Patroclus would go running to Hector or Briseis, and Achilles would be alone more than ever.

So he did nothing; let it fester. Watched as Briseis kept him through the day and Hector stole him through the night, and like the runt of the litter, Achilles begged the scraps when they could be spared.

“I saw you leave Priamides’s room late the other night. You don’t ever stick around after?” Achilles asked Patroclus over dinner. There was a club on Princess Street where Mr Pelides had membership, and Achilles took Patroclus along with him once a fortnight. In Phthia, the nicest place to eat was their house. Achilles could do this – take them to flash restaurants with decent food and a nice view of the city. They would eat prawns and steak and complain about their degrees – but sometimes Achilles ruined it with Hector, as he did this night.

“No,” Patroclus murmured, his face blank the way it always was when Achilles brought up Hector.

“Sorry,” Achilles said, but he pressed on just the same. “He’s not taking advantage or making you feel second rate?”

“ _Christ,_ Achilles.” Patroclus couldn’t even look at him. As if to hide, he plucked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “That’s not the problem.”

“What _is_ the problem?”

Patroclus closed his eyes. “I still have the nightmares. I don’t want him to… I just don’t want Hector to know. Everything before Phthia – people in Melbourne don’t need to know.”

Achilles felt a lurch in his guts. “Even Phthia – I bet you wouldn’t so much mind forgetting about that. About everything.” _About me._

Patroclus looked at him, then – his gaze penetrating. It was a reaction, at least. Sometimes Achilles felt that was all he could get from Patroclus. “I’m grateful for my life in Phthia. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe you and your father,” Patroclus said carefully, as if he was aware the words were grenades. “I’ve been a burden, and I continue to be a burden. I regret that, but I’ve no integrity, because I continue to be in your debt.”

Achilles stiffened. “Do you try to repay _me,_ Patroclus? Those nights you let me hold you? When I pinned you down on the back paddock and jerked myself over your face – when you just lay there? That night with the bedpost –”

“Enough,” Patroclus muttered. “Enough. Please. We’re in public.”

“Were those… _acquiescences_ attempts at paying some imagined debt?”

“That’s what you’ve always thought –”

“It’s the fucking truth,” Achilles hissed. People were looking. “You’re my best friend and my cousin and we could be…” Achilles bit his tongue. “You’re my best mate, but you think you owe me.”

“Jesus,” Patroclus burst. “I let you… I let you get away with murder, and you punish me for it. You wanna know why I let you get away with it? What it was?” Achilles made Patroclus miserable. He knew he did – knew it was getting _worse_. But this night, he was startled to realise he had made Patroclus angry. Patroclus leaned in across the table, his kind face twisted as if in agony. “They were moments of weakness,” Patroclus said icily.

“Weakness?” Achilles fired back. “Were they –”

“What I want and what is right – they’re different. I’ve always known that. My Id,” Patroclus laughed harshly. “My worst self. My most base self.”

“And your best self is for Hector?”

“My best self is long dead,” Patroclus snapped, and Achilles flinched, his whole body tensing. Patroclus shuddered, and hunched in on himself, like he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Achilles spoke gently, the way he had when Patroclus was twelve and shy. “When did your best self die, Patroclus?”

Patroclus stared between them at the table. Achilles remembered being young and barefoot and tiptoeing round and round the trunks of eucalypts, their feet mapping the roots. Achilles imagined Patroclus that small with a noose in his hand, and what might have died that day.

“When I killed Clyde,” he whispered, but it didn’t ring true. Patroclus swallowed. “When Dad… when I had to leave. When I became an occupation and an expense,” Patroclus said hollowly. “Not a son.”

“I regret saying that,” Achilles said solemnly, before laughing at himself. “What I mean to say is – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, and it’s not true. You’re my brother and my best friend.”

Patroclus shook his head and closed his eyes. Since coming to Melbourne, it had become apparent to Achilles that this habit of Patroclus’s was more pronounced in his presence – Patroclus would be with him, but still seek out reprieves behind his eyelids. “I didn’t want to go back to Phthia on break. I was relieved when I was invited for the ski trip.”

“I – okay…”

“I love Phthia. It is my favourite place, but I have no home there, Achilles. I’m a guest. I was a guest before that too – back home, it always felt conditional. Here… I’m no one. No one knows about Clyde or… or anything else. It’s an illusion – your father still pays my way in everything – but it’s… it’s peaceful.”

“Does Hector know you?” Achilles asked.

“Not much. Not for want of trying.”

“Do I know you?”

Patroclus considered this, his brow creasing in contemplation. “Like animals know each other. It’s something instinctive. There’s no hiding much.”

“Alright,” Achilles murmured. Then, “I miss you.”

Patroclus frowned, before something like understanding came over him. “Right – we’ve hardly been apart since you were twelve –”

“No. No, I _miss_ you, Patroclus. I don’t know how to be… how to be your friend, here. It’s different. You come to my track meets, but in Phthia we would race each other across the paddocks. I drop by your room and bother you, but I can’t help you with your homework. You still get nightmares, and I can’t hear – you don’t come to me.”

“We are older and in another place,” Patroclus said simply. “Things are different, but not bad.”

Achilles stared at Patroclus from across the table. Shy of nineteen in a fancy Melbourne club, Achilles could not imagine touching Patroclus the way he had been allowed to in Phthia as a boy. He could not muss up Patroclus’s hair or thumb his cheek or throw his arm around his shoulders – normal enough gestures for country cousins. But Achilles remembered too the special touches he had afforded himself – he recalled play wrestling by Pocock Creek and biting Patroclus’s bicep; he remembered Patroclus in the bath after he pissed himself, weary and embarrassed, and how he had allowed Achilles to trace the tender skin between his wrist and his elbow. Achilles thought of the lewd things he had done to Patroclus during their final summer.

Was this progress?

_This?_

A metre apart, surrounded by people, being _civil_?

Achilles sighed, and shortly took the bill.

“I can pay my half,” Patroclus put in, as he always did.

“Let me,” Achilles muttered. It was something he could do.

* * *

It had always been the way of things that Achilles initiated their interactions – the exchanges he shared with Patroclus. It was more complex than that, of course – in their youth, Achilles often caught Patroclus sending him glances – invitations of sorts. Ever since moving to Melbourne – since Patroclus had refused to let him so much as beg the question before he turned him down – Achilles rarely received these invitations. When they happened upon each other on campus, Achilles had usually orchestrated the meeting on some level, and Patroclus greeted him only with a careful smile.

_I make you sad._

The phrase was on the tip of his tongue each time they met, but every time he felt it try to escape, he felt rage and sadness and grief, and if he ever said the words, it would be a cry of agony, of anguish – and wouldn’t that make things worse?

That was all Achilles had done since they arrived at Melbourne Uni. On the bus there, he had fantasized how he would surprise Patroclus with his goodness, but he continually blundered, sabotaged his own efforts.

It defied logic and reason, then, that Patroclus knocked on his dorm room door just before dinner one evening, sweat drenched and clutching his side.

“Patroclus!” Achilles exclaimed, ushering him in, but Patroclus only leaned heavily against the doorframe.

“I think it’s bad,” Patroclus said hoarsely. “I think it might be my appendix. Might be ruptured. Hurts. It hurts.”

“You need the hospital,” Achilles said. “Appendix – that gotta come out?”

“If it’s ruptured, yeah.”

“Or you could – you could die from this, right?”

“If it… if we’re too late. Maybe. Might not be ruptured,” Patroclus ground out, but his eyes creased in agony, and Achilles thought some of the sweat on his face might have been tears.

“I’m gonna borrow Frankie’s car,” Achilles said. “Sit down. I’m gonna get his keys.”

Patroclus stumbled into Achilles’s room and promptly collapsed on his bed. “Oh no,” he moaned, and he shot up in an instant, but too late to find a bin, he threw up, catching about half of the substance in his hands. “Oh God. Fuck. ‘chilles, I’m sorry.”

It was a peculiar thing. Achilles felt that involuntary reflex of disgust at the sight and smell of Patroclus’s vomit, but overwhelmingly, he felt concerned. He grabbed the towel he had draped over his desk chair and his waste paper bin.

“C’mon, let me,” Achilles mumbled, urging Patroclus to release what he had managed to catch into the bin, before wiping down his mouth and hands with the towel. “Gotta get the keys. Don’t clean anything. Just sit down, yeah? Let me take care of you.”

Patroclus nodded shakily, and Achilles bullied Frankie Ajax into handing over his car keys ( _If he dies because you won’t give me your damn keys, I’ll kill you myself, Ajax)_ and they made off the Royal Melbourne, where Patroclus was quickly thrown into surgery. Achilles felt, unusually, as though he had done everything right, and that perhaps the spell was broken, when Hector arrived not twenty minutes after Patroclus woke up with handpicked flowers from the Old Quadrangle and an unlimited stream of easy conversation.

Achilles watched them a while. Patroclus was right – it wasn’t love. There weren’t stars in Patroclus’s eyes, and far from intimacies, Hector always spoke as if he was regaling an audience of indolent younger brothers. But Patroclus liked it. Patroclus liked sitting back and listening, knowing none of Hector’s words would be venomous. Achilles could only take it so long.

“Oh come, Pelides. Don’t leave on my account,” Hector said.

“I’m going to call Father – let him know what happened and that Pat’s okay,” Achilles managed. He rarely had to interact with Hector, but he had the impression that Hector knew a little about him and Patroclus. It irked Achilles that the thought didn’t seem to bother Hector in the slightest. _He knows he’s won. He doesn’t even want Patroclus, but he knows he’s won. That I’ve lost him._ “I’ll see you, Pat. Priamides.”

“Alright. Achilles…” Patroclus smiled that sad, strained smile of his. “Thank you for helping me. I really might’ve died, without you.”

Achilles only nodded.

 _I make you sad,_ he wanted to cry out. _I make you miserable._

* * *

It was two days later that Achilles heard voices on the other side of the dormroom door. Patroclus and Hector. Patroclus, whose bed he had slept in the past two nights, and Hector, who had driven Patroclus home. It was to Achilles’s immense relief when he heard Hector depart down the hallway before Patroclus entered his room and startled.

“Christ!”

“Sorry,” Achilles grumbled. Patroclus stumbled back into the doorframe and promptly clutched his side. Achilles felt a jolt of panic run through him, but Patroclus steadied himself.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He gestured at Achilles’s form beneath the blanket.

“My room still smells like vomit,” Achilles said, and he knew that was a nasty thing to say to someone who had just had surgery. Patroclus, who had looked at least a little amused at the situation, deflated.

“I… I’m sorry. You’re right, that was… I can sleep in your room, until it clears up,” Patroclus said tiredly.

Achilles closed his eyes and managed to keep from punching the wall until his knuckles bled. Why did he do this? “I didn’t mean that.”

“You’re right –”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. You could have died. My room smells like vomit, and your room smells like you,” Achilles said. He kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You could have _died_.”

“I’m okay,” Patroclus said softly, as though Achilles needed comfort. He smiled a little, like he used to. “Do I smell?”

“You smell like you,” Achilles replied, sitting up. “I like it. I’ve always liked it.” _It’s something instinctive._ “Come to bed.”

Patroclus shook his head as Achilles patted the blanket invitingly. “Come on, Achilles...”

“We used to, when you had nightmares. Please?” he asked.

Patroclus sighed in capitulation. He was exhausted and in pain, and Achilles was taking advantage, and if he had the slightest sense of decency he would leave him to rest. But Patroclus undressed down to his boxers, and Achilles watched, transfixed. “Just for today because I’m too tired to argue.”

“Alright,” Achilles agreed. Then, because Achilles was a sadist, “When you felt sick – could you not find Hector? Him being a medical student and all…”

“I’ll say it, and after I do, I need you to let me rest – alright?” Patroclus whispered.

“Alright.”

Patroclus sighed, and some of the tension left his body. “Hector didn’t even cross my mind,” he murmured. “I don’t know why. He would have looked after me well enough – might’ve even had some sway with the hospital staff, given his father – but here you are.” Patroclus laughed dryly. “Here we are, like always.”

_Like animals know each other. It’s something instinctive. There’s no hiding much._

Achilles recalled Patroclus had once asked Chiron if animals had language.

 _No,_ Chiron had answered. _Not like people do. But they communicate – through tone and smell and touch._

Patroclus gave him language, sometimes. His moments of weakness. But usually they knew each other like animals. Achilles slid an arm around Patroclus and breathed him in and if they were animals, they would be mates. People always preached how unnatural queers were, but in his moments of animal weakness, Patroclus loved Achilles more beautifully and devotedly than anyone else in the world could – Patroclus’s body craved him, their souls reached out to cling to each other.

But humans are uniquely rational. Wasn’t that what John Locke said? What Chiron said? What the law professors pondered at lecterns? Humans are uniquely rational and capable of reason and Patroclus was human enough and reasonable enough to resist Achilles and abate himself with Hector and Johnny and whoever else he fucked around with. Patroclus had power with them – the power that comes of not loving someone, the control that comes of never being drunk off their touch or high off their scent. In Phthia, Patroclus had had nights of debauchery – squirming and begging and wriggling and rutting for Achilles in the safety of his little animal den. The _thought_ of Achilles had made Patroclus base, hungry, beautiful and wild and mad with need. Like Achilles.

“Hector doesn’t know you,” Achilles murmured into the darkness.

Patroclus made a sleepy, unconscious noise of agreement.

“Maybe,” Achilles said to the flesh of Patroclus’s neck, “he should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is obviously about to do something incredibly fucked. Also, I feel like every character development seems to come with a bodily fluid - yikes.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments make my day!


	8. Semester Two: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles does his worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> So, here's the dilemma re: tagging. As was foreshadowed in the last chapter, obviously Achilles is about to do something horrific. I haven't tagged it because the way it interacts with other information would mean it's seen coming from chapter one.
> 
> My solution for now is to tag it in the end notes, and include a summary of what happens. My thinking is that then you have the option. 
> 
> Aside from that, this chapter is smaller than I had hoped, but it was this or nothing as I face of interim assessments (alas).

It was a few weeks after Patroclus’s surgery that Hector Priamides approached Patroclus in the dining hall at lunch. Lunch was always the quietest meal in the colleges – students went out to cafes, or carried fruit to class – and it was unusual that Hector would come back on a Tuesday during his break between practicals. He had cast peculiar glances at Patroclus from across the room, and when he dismissed his footy friends and made for Patroclus, he was oddly hesitant. He was stilted and contemplative, and when Patroclus prodded him, he was quick to give in.

“I have something I need to talk to you about, and I wasn’t sure if I should wait,” Hector surrendered. When Patroclus’s eyes widened to saucers, Hector relaxed a little and knocked gently into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry, but I do want to talk to you in private.”

Patroclus nodded stiffly. “You can tell me now.”

“I should’ve waited for the end of the day,” Hector muttered.

“I only have one class in the morning on Tuesdays. I have nothing to do.”

Hector sighed heavily and gestured for Patroclus to follow him. The walk to Hector’s room was a long trudge to the gallows, though why, Patroclus struggled to imagine. It would be sad, he supposed, if Hector was dismissing him. Hector liked him, but didn’t love him, and that was great, but it would hardly be heartbreaking to lose it. Hector didn’t frighten Patroclus – he didn’t have the power to hurt him. But there was someone who could.

Achilles.

Patroclus could not imagine how or why, but this was Achilles. The thought came with the sense of relief that clings to familiarity. Achilles would hurt him, but Patroclus was Achilles’s to hurt.

“I found it slid under my door,” Hector said as they entered his room. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but then… well, you deserve to know that he’s done this and that…” Hector flushed a little and looked at the ground. “You deserve to know that I’ve seen them.”

“Them?” Patroclus asked dumbly.

Hector plucked an envelope from his desk and guided Patroclus to sit with him on the bed. “I’ve already seen them, and it’s not… it’s alright,” Hector said. He tugged a bundle of pictures from the envelope and Patroclus’s heart sank. “These pictures… these are you, aren’t they?” Hector asked not unkindly, placing the images face up on the bed. And there he was, eighteen in the Pelides house, impaled on a bedpost, and Achilles’s fist, and empty, gaping, bent over the mattress. There he was, for the world to see. “Who took them?”

“The boy I lived with,” Patroclus croaked. “I… I got stuck and needed his help and he took… he brought his camera, said he’d help if I let him…”

“Was the boy Achilles Pelides? From the law school?” Hector asked gently, and Patroclus clung to it, his calm. “Your cousin?”

“Yes. I never thought… I never thought he would show them to anyone. I’m sorry.”

Hector took Patroclus’s hand. “He was trying to make trouble, showing me these. But look at you – I think it’s sort of amazing. Do you like being stretched out like that?”

Cheeks blazing red, Patroclus nodded. “Yeah. Used to be like a game.”

“That’s food for thought.” Hector grinned, and Patroclus felt his own face try to mimic the expression, desperate not to be loved or adored or even liked, but simply not to be forsaken. Again. “You said you’d never… you know…”

“I haven’t,” Patroclus said quickly.

Hector cast a glance at the photos, and smiled amicably. “All this, and you’ve not… known a man biblically? Pardon the expression.”

“Sounds crazy,” Patroclus agreed queasily.

“Not to sell myself short, but I swear my cock goes in easier than Pelides’s fists,” Hector said, and if he understood how it filled Patroclus with dread to hear, Patroclus knew he wouldn’t have said it.

“Yeah. I’ll bet,” he said weakly.

“Look Pat, Achilles is a louse for making these and worse for sharing them, but is it okay if I keep them? If not, take them and destroy them by all means.” Hector handed the pictures over and leaned back, giving Patroclus space to flick through them. In the end, Patroclus selected two of the ten pictures and handed the remaining eight back to Hector.

The first was him, his hole on display, gasping, loose, Achilles’s cum glistening on the rim and his buttocks.

_Please, Achilles_ , he had begged. _Please, in me, please, need you_. But Achilles had denied him.

_Say you love me._

_I can’t._

The second was himself, sobbing.

_Sobbing for cock_ , Achilles had sneered. _You forced yourself on a bedpost, now you’re crying for my cock. Just admit that you love me._

But he couldn’t, and he hadn’t, and he would probably never tell him.

“Sorry,” Patroclus said again.

“Don’t be,” Hector assured him. “Law students, right?”

* * *

Patroclus didn’t feel like he was really alive in his body that night. Without having a drop of alcohol, Patroclus was drunk and bleary and confused. Time felt like it was drawn out, but also skipping in leaps and stumbles. His dorm room was suddenly unfamiliar and disorienting – with every blink, Patroclus was shocked anew that he was in Trinity College and not the Pelides home in Phthia. He missed dinner.

Achilles.

He needed to…

And Hector – surely he had to…

_You’ve not… known a man biblically?_

Patroclus felt his chest tighten and sought out the wine beneath his bed and sipped at it – if his mind betrayed him, he might as well be drunk. It didn’t help keep time, but it eased the knots that had formed in his throat and chest and stomach.

Hector.

Patroclus could do that with Hector. And soon enough, Patroclus found himself in Hector’s room.

One moment Patroclus was sucking Hector’s prick, the next he was grinding on Hector’s lap.

“You want to?” Hector asked. “You’re a bit funny – you’ve not drunk too much? You sure you want to?”

Patroclus blinked. _I suppose I should I guess I must._

A pesky tumble in time and Patroclus was split open by cock.

* * *

“You don’t wanna stay?” Hector asked, sounding just faintly hurt as he leaned up on his elbows.

“I’m a bad sleeper,” Patroclus muttered as he dressed hastily. As he pulled up his jeans, Patroclus felt the presence of the two pictures in his pocket, and the peculiar sensation of Hector’s seed inside of him.

“Was it alright?”

Patroclus made himself smile. “Better than alright.”

And then he left for Achilles.

* * *

Patroclus placed the pictures down on Achilles’s desk, his fingers trembling. “I believe these are yours.”

Like clockwork, Achilles smirked and snapped up the pictures. “Ah. Hate to tell you, Pat, but there were more than two pictures in the stash.”

“He liked them. I let him keep the rest.”

Achilles’s smile slipped a little. “He got off on them?”

Patroclus shrugged. “Probably. Don’t you?”

Achilles pretended not to hear and examined the two photos. “Why these two? The others are dirtier.”

“These ones are more personal.”

“So you bring them back to me.” Achilles laughed. “And what? You want me to give them to someone else?” He placed the images back on the desk and shook his head. “I have my own personal collection, I’ve no need for copies. No need to give you free advertising.”

“Why give them to him at all, Achilles?” Patroclus asked tiredly. “You wanted him to get off?”

Achilles shrugged.

“Did you want to give him blackmail material? So he can ruin me?”

At this he startled, and the malice in his face dissipated in an instant. “No, of course not.” Achilles hesitated. “Do you think he would?”

Patroclus sighed. “No, you just wanted him to break things off with me.”

Achilles shook his head absently. “Is he the type? Do you suppose he would threaten you?”

“No, I don’t think he’s the type. And what’s there to threaten? His dad’s the Dean, he’s not lacking in money. No one would come running to save my reputation, no one would throw money at it to make it go away.” But Achilles had gone deadly pale and Patroclus understood. Softly, he asked, “Did you really not think of it?”

“No,” Achilles murmured. “No…” He turned to him abruptly. “Patroclus, I… I’ll get them back.”

“Don’t talk to Hector,” Patroclus said tonelessly. “I said he could have them. You’ve done enough.”

“Pat, if he ever threatens you, I need you to tell me. If he ever – anything. Anything, you tell _me_.”

_Of course_ , Patroclus thought tiredly, _Of course, of course_. And something flared up in him – anger and spite and the frustration which came of having loved Achilles so tediously and so long, and he knew a way to hurt the both of them.

“I hadn’t let him fuck me,” Patroclus said stiffly, and Achilles looked surprised, maybe pleased. “I said I wasn’t ready. But the boy in those pictures… He looks up for anything. He looks like a whore, gagging for it. Who would that boy be to deny anyone?”

“If he asks for _anything_ from you. Come to me.” Achilles stared at the pictures in front of him. “I don’t care what it is – tell me and I’ll fix it up. I’m sorry, I didn’t think this through.”

Patroclus still wasn’t sure why he had thought confronting Achilles was a good idea, but he had at no point anticipated an apology. The sudden appearance of one was inexplicably off-putting, and Patroclus found himself snatching the two images from the desk. “He was gentle,” Patroclus murmured not able to watch for Achilles’s inevitable flinch through his own humiliation. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing I wasn’t practically begging for.” He found himself staring at his younger self, crying for Achilles, before daring himself to look at the living, breathing Achilles, who looked sick. “Hector said I could take them all back, and I let him keep them, so if anything else comes of it, it’s shame on me.”

“Just the same,” Achilles said flatly. “You’ll tell me if anything… anything you don’t want, anything to scare you…”

“Go to hell.”

Achilles leapt up from his desk as Patroclus made for the door. “Don’t – don’t go back to him.”

Patroclus stared through Achilles. “You always do your worst – you don’t hold back. I never think you can top yourself, and then you do. Tell me, Achilles – what could be worse than this?” Patroclus shivered. “You got more pictures – the film, copies? Maybe you can give them to Hector’s father, get me sent down? Or your dad, and have me cut off? You could hit me. You’ve never hit me before –”

“I wouldn’t –”

“What could Hector possibly do to me that you haven’t already?” Patroclus asked, his voice shaking with fury. “Will you punish me, if I go?” Patroclus asked in little more than a whisper. “You can stop me. I know you can. What will you do to me if I go back to Hector tonight? How can you make this _worse_?”

Achilles hesitated, his face frozen in shock. Then, “I won’t do anything to you. I… I never want to hurt you, Patroclus.”

Patroclus laughed horribly. “I know. I let you because I know _why_ you do it, Achilles. But next time, keep your games just between us.”

* * *

_Patroclus stands once again at the gallows, his wrists bound. It’s a stifling January day in Opus, and the townspeople will have his blood._

_This is a dream, of course, but like any dream, Patroclus drifts through it with the fear that it is not – that this time the drop will be final. The noose swings to and fro in the breeze, beckoning him._

_Sometimes Patroclus is saved, in these dreams. Not by his father, who often stars as his executioner – no. Often Mr Chiron comes for him – he will grab Patroclus by the elbow as if he is a child lost at a supermarket and drag him to safety (Come along, now. Is there anywhere I can take you?)._

_Usually Achilles comes for him. He will watch Patroclus with his cold, reptilian eyes as they slide Patroclus’s head into the noose only to frown._

_“Did Patroclus only kill a boy?” he would ponder aloud as if the whole affair was unbearably dull. “How stupid. Get him down.”_

_Somehow, that always breaks the spell – the townspeople lose their ire and wander away, and Patroclus is given over to Achilles, hands still bound, but safe._

_Patroclus looks for Achilles this night, and is relieved to find his bored face in the crowd. No one looked like Achilles in Opus (no one looks like Achilles anywhere). Patroclus waits for Achilles to speak up – to claim him, to take him home._

_This time, however, Achilles simply watches._

_“Could you not find Hector?” he asks slowly as Patroclus’s head is slipped into the noose._

_Stupidly, Patroclus glances about – for Hector. For anyone. But there is only Achilles, and Achilles shrugs._

* * *

“Patroclus. Patroclus, I’m here. It’s alright, you’re awake, I’m here. Come on – in and out, let’s slow it down.”

“Achilles,” Patroclus gasped. He managed to crack his eyes open and saw he was in Hector’s room, but still he whimpered, “Achilles.”

“I can get him. I’ll go get him if you want him. Do you want him?” Hector asked calmly in the dark.

Patroclus almost said yes. Almost begged for Achilles. “No,” he muttered, clutching his chest. “No. No, no. It… it happens.”

Hector sat with him until he could breathe properly – it usually only took a few minutes, but it felt as if his lungs would give out and his heart would explode. It always did. Hector fetched Patroclus some water without fuss and waited for him.

“I get nightmares,” Patroclus confessed sitting crosslegged across from Hector on the single bed as his heartrate settled. “Sometimes this happens – I’ll… I’ll wake up crying. I don’t usually… I can usually breathe, but sometimes I can’t. Achilles used to be good about it.”

“It’s not just crying because you’re sad. It might be a health issue – a psych-”

“I know I’m… I know. First thing I did when I got access to the medical library was look up what was wrong with me. I know why I can’t breathe and why my heart… I know, Hec.” Patroclus sat up and began to dress. “It usually only happens at night – it’s hardly ever been a problem in the day. No one’s ever seen… only Achilles.”

“Is it… it’s nothing to do with the pictures, is it?” Hector asked guiltily.

“No. No, something else happened a long time ago.”

“And Achilles knows?”

“He does.”

“Do you think telling me might help?” Hector asked patiently, and he sounded like a good doctor and a kind man.

Patroclus considered this as he buttoned up his jeans. “No. It would change how you see me.”

“Did it change how Pelides sees you?”

Patroclus surrendered a small smile. “No. But Achilles is the only one who could… who could be that…” Patroclus laughed and pushed his sweatdrenched hair off his face. “You might forgive me, maybe. But I told Achilles, and it was… it was nice not to be forgiven. He's devil enough to feast on my sins and… and be my friend without forgiveness.” Patroclus felt tired and miserable and ashamed, but he no longer felt like he was dying. “I hope I wasn’t too loud,” he mumbled. “I was right in the first place – I shouldn’t have come back.”

“No,” Hector submitted. “It’s really alright. I’d be happy if you stayed.”

“Mmm.” Patroclus shook his head and wiped his eyes. “The… the heat…” he muttered. “Two people in bed… it was too warm. I’ll head back to my room. Sorry to wake you.”

Patroclus stopped outside Achilles’s room on his way back. He felt his heart clench and his breath catch and he laughed as sharp and crude as a cough. Achilles had never made _this_ worse – he had always been a comfort.

Achilles would hold him. Even dripping Hector’s seed, Achilles would pull him close and murmur sweet words that would sour by morning. Achilles missed it – missed him – and would welcome him into his bed. And Patroclus should be repulsed – _disgusted_ – by the thought, but every part of him begged to crawl into Achilles’s single bed.

In the dark of his own room, Patroclus felt for their pact scar on his hand, running trembling fingers over and over the raised skin.

_How can you make this worse?_

Patroclus knew how – had dreamt it; Achilles could abandon him. Achilles could lose interest in him. Achilles could move on.

Patroclus had held his ground with Achilles that night, but he would give in sooner than later.

“You’re crazy,” Patroclus whispered to the ceiling. “You’re crazier than he is.”

But he had always known that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** CW - Revenge porn?
> 
> Summary (of the tag): Harking back to when Achilles took pictures of Patroclus during Chapter 1 (Last Summer) when Patroclus was fisted, Hector confronts Patroclus about an envelope full of said pictures that had been left under his door. Hector's reaction is largely sympathetic, though he admits he's turned on by the pictures and suggests he would like to keep them (Patroclus allows him to keep all but two), and also have penetrative sex with him (something Patroclus had previously been unwilling to do). 
> 
> If anyone feels strongly this should be in the main tags, I'll tag it. The argument for tagging is that some people might never had invested time into reading the fic if they knew this would be a plot point (understandable!). The reason against it is that once it's in the tags, it seems to me that readers would instantly connect the pictures Achilles takes in the first chapter with the act.
> 
> Additional notes - What Patroclus and Hector talk _around_ after Patroclus wakes up from his nightmare is that Patroclus is having a panic attack. Being set in 1959, I struggled to find whether the medical terminology was the same then as it is now - so if it seems jarring that it wasn't clarified in fic, that's why.
> 
> Finally - what Achilles has done is _vile_. I can't guarantee that I handle it perfectly, but I really try to emphasise that this is fucked up and irredeemable (and NOT cute jealous boyfriend stuff).
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, your comments make my day.


	9. Semester Two: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> I still don't know if this chapter makes any sense whatsoever. Please tell me if you're confused.
> 
> Also, see I've added some tags.
> 
> Just a reminder of my bizarre naming key:
> 
> Tommy Agamemnon - Agamemnon  
> Mickey Agamemnon - Menelaus  
> Graham Odysseus - Odysseus  
> Frankie Ajax - Ajax  
> Joey Ajax - Little Baby Ajax (aka Ajax the Lesser)
> 
> Everyone else is self explanatory.

At thirteen, Patroclus’s sadness was foreign to Achilles. Not that Achilles didn’t know unhappiness – Achilles knew of loneliness and quiet all too well in the years before Patroclus’s arrival – but he had always smothered it, hid it by being loud and mean. At thirteen, Patroclus’s sadness was palpable.

There was a look he got, when they were younger. It came often that first year – a far off stare that unsettled Achilles. It had crossed Patroclus’s face when they climbed trees – Patroclus would be twelve feet high straddling a branch and look down with an expression that wasn’t fear and made Achilles feel uneasy. Sometimes Patroclus ducked beneath the ripples of Pocock Creek and didn’t emerge for an unnerving amount of time.

Achilles remembered once watching the place where Patroclus had ducked down more than a minute ago and feeling his heart race with a fear he did not know the name of as he leapt into the creek and hauled Patroclus’s head to breach the water’s surface.

 _Whattaya doin’, Pat?_ he had pressed, inexplicably angry at his playmate.

 _Holding my breath_ , Patroclus had replied flatly.

_Well, maybe don’t do that._

Patroclus’s sadness eased a little over the years, and sometimes Achilles convinced himself that he had only been seeing things. But there was no mistaking it now.

Patroclus seemed to sleepwalk through the day, his face blank but for the perfunctory polite smiles he conjured for classmates and professors that would collapse moments after formation. When he looked at Achilles now, there was an unbearable emptiness; like Patroclus was high up in a gum tree and Achilles was the rock-hard ground.

* * *

One morning, Achilles passed Patroclus and Hector hunched in close over breakfast.

“It wasn’t… I know it’s all so new still. If you don’t like it…”

“No.” Patroclus was cold and distant and jolted a little when Hector touched him. Achilles had seen couples on campus – how they became soppy and co-dependent after going ‘all the way’. This, he thought numbly, was the opposite of that, but meant the same thing. “The dreams are unrelated – it’s like I said.”

“Are you sure?” Hector asked patiently, and Achilles saw how he squeezed Patroclus’s knee under the kitchen table. “Because this isn’t make or break for me. You can tell me to back off.”

Patroclus only shrugged. “I’m the faggot. You saw the photos. Of course I want it. Any time.”

“We’re the same,” Hector said slowly. “Both, wasn’t it?”

Patroclus shrugged and kept his eyes pinned to the table. “You don’t think of men quite the same as women. I… I can have feelings for both – love both just the same. We’re not quite alike, in that way.”

“I don’t… you know I don’t…” Hector looked up to see if anyone was listening, before leaning in closer to Patroclus. “I don’t love you.”

Achilles felt his heart sink. _I’ve never been loved. It’s not something I miss, and I’m not so sure it’s something I can have…_ Patroclus didn’t even wince – he simply nodded automatically, as if agreeing.

“I know. I don’t… you either. We have fun. I like it. I’m good for it, Priamides.” Patroclus faked a smile and knocked his shoulder against Hector’s. “You have footy Saturday week? If you hang back, I wouldn’t mind desecrating your changeroom.”

Hector grinned and nicked a piece of bacon from Patroclus’s plate. “Even if we lose?”

“Comfort or joy,” Patroclus offered. “I’m happy with either.”

Achilles felt his stomach turn, and decided to against breakfast.

* * *

Achilles loitered outside the women’s college for almost two hours before Briseis Antony finally appeared. She looked frazzled and exhausted and like a woman better left unbothered - but Achilles was unbothered by politeness.

“Took you long enough,” Achilles grumbled. At some point he had cracked open Isaac J’s judgment from the _Engineer’s Case_ which was, in Achilles’s opinion, the lowest of depths to sink to in one’s boredom.

Briseis jumped a little, pivoting to see Achilles lounging in the shade of a tree. “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, Pelides. Did we have an appointment?”

Achilles grinned wearily. It was not that he was fond of Briseis so much as she reminded him of Patroclus – a Patroclus sensible enough not to give him the time of day. “No. No, I only thought you’d come straight after class.”

“Well, _I_ had an appointment.” Briseis sighed heavily. “What on Earth can I do for you, Pelides?”

“Pat.”

Briseis raised a dainty eyebrow. “Pat?”

“I’ve not seen you around with Pat lately.”

“We are _only_ friends, Pelides.”

“Friends spend time together.”

Briseis shrugged. “He’s been busy.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Well then he’s been busy avoiding me,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know why.”

“He’s sad,” Achilles said quickly. “He… You know something of his history. He gets sad. Melancholic. Depressed. I don’t know what quacks call it, but he could use a friend.”

Briseis softened as Achilles knew she would. “He values your friendship most of all, Achilles.”

“I have done it to him.” Achilles hesitated. He remembered the look on Patroclus’s face when he came to his room with the two pictures – betrayal. Humiliation that could not be cured by Achilles’s affection because Achilles had dragged Hector into it, and the pictures had changed things between Patroclus and Hector and between Achilles and Patroclus, and it was broken because Achilles had broken it. But he did not get to keep the pieces, this time. “We fought. I was in the wrong, but I did some things I can’t take back. I would give him my friendship, but for what I’ve done, I can only make things worse.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said skeptically, raising a slender hand to shade her eyes from the setting sun .

Achilles laughed bitterly. “You don’t think I’m capable of it?”

Briseis’s expression hardened in a second. “I don’t doubt your capability to be – like your mates – _astonishingly_ heartless, Pelides. What I very much doubt is Pat’s ability to bear a grudge against you. So you implore me to smooth it over – women’s work – because you lack the hide to speak to him yourself. And for his position, whatever wrong you’ve committed, he will end up submitting to you once more because he has no choice about it.”

“That’s not it.”

“Which part of what I said is wrong, Pelides?” she bit, her eyes aglint with fury that Achilles had more than earnt, but was out of place in this particular exchange.

_Like your mates…_

“Have one of the guys bothered you?” Achilles asked, frowning.

“Only you right now,” she snapped, folding her arms defensively over her chest. “The rest of your buddies are clever enough to only tread on women who lack the means to…” She trailed off and slumped her shoulders. “I’ll check in with Pat,” Briseis muttered. “That’s all you wanted. I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ve been busy, but I’ll make the time.”

“Thank you,” Achilles said. “I’m grateful.”

“Pelides.” Achilles, who had begun walking back to Trinity, turned around. “The inter-college athletics meet is Friday afternoon, isn’t it?”

Achilles shrugged. “It is.”

Briseis smiled sadly. “Then you needn’t’ve come all this way. He won’t miss your run, Pelides.”

* * *

Achilles looked into the stands, ready to be gutted – ready to see Ajax and Odysseus and Agamemnon and Mickey, and a bunch of other boys he didn’t give a fuck about, and not the one who mattered. He expected it to smart, to _ache_ when he saw Patroclus had abandoned him. He did not expect Patroclus’s presence to hurt more than his absence.

Patroclus sat with Briseis, his sleeves rolled up that he might enjoy the spring sun. The pair was out of place – they did not wear the same enthusiasm as their peers. Indeed, Briseis glanced periodically at a book on her lap. But when Achilles caught sight of Patroclus, Patroclus offered him a tired smile and mouthed, _Well done._

Achilles couldn’t say why he jogged over. He didn’t hear his time called, or if he broke any records. Running to Patroclus was as natural and instinctive as racing to a finish line.

“You came,” he said before he could stop himself, breathless and desperate. Briseis met his eyes for a second, before glancing back down at her novel. 

Patroclus laughed miserably. “I came.” There was an edge to his voice – a hardness - and the area beneath his eyes was dark and tired looking. Patroclus wasn’t sleeping – the nightmares or Medicine or Hector were keeping him awake.

“You don’t… you don’t have to,” Achilles said. Achilles thought of Patroclus watching Hector playing football – how Hector was a star on the field, and got to look out and see Patroclus, _convenient_ in the stands.

“I wouldn’t miss it. You’re amazing. No one else is like you, Achilles.”

"Thank Christ for that, right?" Achilles said, and he felt his throat tighten when Patroclus only looked a little sad and horribly kind.

"Not at all."

“Are we still friends?” Achilles asked abruptly. “Or did I break it?”

Briseis looked away, seemingly aware something intimate was playing out. Patroclus sighed, and held up the palm of his right hand. “We’re brothers.”

“Would you choose it again?”

“We didn’t choose it,” Patroclus said. “We have only named it.”

In the early days of uni – before Achilles blundered time and time again – Achilles had not been shy about turning up at Patroclus’s room and laying himself down in Patroclus’s bed as Patroclus tried to study.

 _You know Common Law – it’s courts making law, really. From a distance, you think pollies make all the rules, but precedents get set by courts. And that’s the thing,_ Achilles had jabbered excitedly. _It’s like… the law is always there. When courts make the decision, they are only naming it. It isn’t, ‘This is how I think it should be…’, it’s, ‘This is how it is, and here I shall explain.’ Isn’t that strange?_

Achilles recoiled at the memory. It would be alien to speak to Patroclus that way, now. If Achilles stood in Patroclus’s doorway, he would look for Hector, try to sniff him out. He would say something horrible and snide, and Patroclus would look tired.

“Will you come back to Phthia for break?” Achilles asked.

“Will you?” Patroclus echoed.

“Yes,” Achilles submitted. “Unless you’d prefer I didn’t.”

“I plan to be there for the summer,” Patroclus said softly. “I don’t hate you, Achilles. I’m incapable of it. When these things happen…” Patroclus laughed that same, strange laugh, his head tilted back. _These things…_ When Achilles pinned him down. When Achilles took pictures of him fucked out and insatiable. When Achilles _shared_ the pictures… What a joke. _These things…_ “When these things happen, I… It’s usually me just as well. I know that.” Achilles stared at him. Even Briseis turned to look at them for just a second. Before he could say anything, Patroclus shivered. “Was that your last race?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes,” Achilles managed.

“Then maybe we might get on.” Patroclus turned to Briseis, and they stood up to leave. “Well done, Pelides. You broke another record.”

“I did?” Achilles asked dully.

Patroclus laughed hollowly. “You did, Achilles.”

“I… Have dinner with me,” Achilles said desperately. “Tonight.”

Patroclus looked over his shoulder, and at once Achilles was the dusty ground, or the riverbed, or a length of rope already tied. “No. Maybe I’ll see you at the footy final next week. Hector’s playing.”

And he wandered away.

* * *

Achilles sat with Tommy, Mickey, Graham and Ajax at the on campus café. These afternoons were boring, but Achilles felt himself obliged to keep the contact. He remembered his embarrassment when Patroclus had sympathised over having no friends – how he had asserted himself to the townie kids, demanded their acknowledgement at the town fete. This was that, Achilles supposed. He didn’t like the idea of being incapable of having friends when Patroclus warmed so quickly to strangers.

“You don’t smoke?” Frankie Ajax asked, offering a cigarette. Something about his tone of voice suggested that maybe he had already asked Achilles once or twice to no response. Ajax tried again when Achilles simply blinked back at him dully. “You want a smoke, Pelides?”

“Maybe he’s been smoking something other than tobacco,” Tommy Agamemnon jeered.

Achilles straightened up and shrugged. “Pat says they’re bad for you.”

It was a stupid thing to say, and the guys broke into a chorus of laughter (even Odysseus chuckled). It was circulating around that smoking put shit in your lungs that’d kill you, but there was something childish and strange in Achilles’s response. He wasn’t himself.

Achilles and Patroclus had tried cigarettes when they were fifteen, and it had ended with them coughing pitifully on the back paddock – Patroclus worse than Achilles. Achilles had noticed when they raced that Patroclus – though an apt runner – would often have coughing fits after a few rounds.

 _Do you like it?_ Patroclus had asked doubtfully.

 _Father says you get used to it,_ Achilles had replied.

 _My dad said that too,_ Patroclus murmured, and he needn’t have added anything else – anything tied to Patroclus’s father was, on principle, despised by Achilles – but Achilles was glad when he said, _Chiron says it’s bad for you. Lungs and teeth._

_Then it seems like a stupid thing to get used to._

“It fucks up your lungs, is what I meant,” Achilles said, doubling down. “He we are celebrating Trinity taking out athletics. Can’t have the star runner hacking up a lung.”

“So good of Pat to keep our _star runner’s_ lungs up to scratch,” Tommy drawled. “Speaking of, is Pat still in with Hector?”

Achilles scowled. “What about it?”

“Well, the Priamideses aren’t high on our list, are they?” Tommy said slowly, as if to a child.

Achilles looked at Graham, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, _Helen._

Achilles suppressed his own ugly laughter. He vaguely remembered Tommy and Mickey bitching out something about Helen being ‘seduced’ by Paris - which was, of course, bullshit. Achilles remembered the way Helen had smirked at him at the engagement party. In the mood Achilles was in, he half wanted to fuck Helen himself, just to spite Tommy and his idiot brother. The thought of Mickey raising a bastard Pelides...

“I swear the two of you’ve kept company since the engagement party,” Achilles said evenly, gesturing at the brothers from across the table.

“What’s that meant to mean?” Mickey shot back.

Achilles raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry – I imagined your fiancées were free to indulge the same as you. They’re modern women, we’re modern men.” Achilles watched Graham have a minor aneurism as the brothers processed Achilles’s taunt, but Achilles was feeling particularly weary that day and carried on. “That’s what you’re doing when you chat up the girls from the nursing school, isn’t it? Or are you really only too nervous to ask Hector to take a look and check when your balls will drop?”

That crossed the line even for Achilles. Tommy angrily stubbed out his cigarette.

“You’ll have to forgive Achilles, Mickey,” Tommy said finally. “He flashes around being a Pelides, but he’s the son of a whore just as well.”

Silence fell across the table, and it was Achilles’s turn to laugh. His whole body shook from it, and when he came to, he was pleased to find his friends looking conspicuously away from him.

“Pat sees an awful lot of Hector Priamides,” Achilles submitted at last, “but even if Paris _is_ fucking Helen, I don’t suppose he invites his brother and co along to watch.”

Mickey turned bright red (a terrible effect against his ginger hair), and Tommy curled his lip, making an excuse for himself and his brother to leave Graham, Frankie and Achilles to themselves.

“Nicely played,” Odysseus said sardonically, lighting up a fag and leaning back in his chair. He made an effort for Tommy and Mickey, but Achilles and Frankie weren’t worth decorum.

“I thought so,” Achilles countered. “Are you playing up on Penny already, or are you saving it for your engagement?”

“I’m waiting till marriage for the affairs,” Graham said smoothly. “Good boy, me.”

“And Frankie’s waiting till marriage to _talk_ to a girl,” Achilles offered with a grin.

“Oi!” Ajax snapped, blowing smoke over his shoulder. “Y’know, I don’t see you around with anyone.”

That was, Achilles thought, perhaps the sharpest comeback Frankie Ajax had ever strung together in his life. Achilles resisted the urge to applaud him.

“The difference between the two of us is that I don’t make a fool of myself trying,” Achilles said smoothly.

“Yes,” Odysseus said with a smirk. “You’re not wasting any efforts with the ladies. How _is_ Pat?”

Achilles schooled his features into a careful mask. Graham had a habit of seeing things that others didn’t, and tucking them away for ‘later’. “Pat’s alright.”

Graham chuckled good naturedly. “I didn’t mean to offend. Pat’s your favourite subject, usually – only time we can get more than a line out of you.”

Achilles was vaguely aware of this – that whenever he was pressed to talk about something other than law, he wound up talking about Patroclus. He supposed he wouldn’t be able to do that so much anymore. Patroclus had watched his races, but things were still broken.

“He still tutors Joey?” Graham prodded, looking between Achilles and Ajax.

Ajax looked startled. “I… yeah. We were thinking of stopping, though.”

The waitress came by to take away their plates, and Achilles put in for another coffee before rounding on Ajax.

“High school term’s almost up. Why would you cancel Pat? I thought Joey was doing better?” Achilles asked, annoyed. With everything else going on, the _last_ thing Patroclus needed was the Ajaxes to cut off his work.

“Well… well – like Tommy said… Y’know. He’s in with Hector Priamides, isn’t he?” Ajax bumbled.

Achilles heaved an agitated sigh – that he was about to defend Hector at all was a travesty. “Hector Priamides is the Dean’s son and just happens to be Paris’s brother – he’s hardly ‘the wrong crowd’. Tommy and Mickey are just sore to get a taste of their own medicine.”

Graham’s grin grew a little. “I thought you and Hector were mates, Frankie.”

“I… No.” Inexplicably, Ajax's neck went an ugly, splotchy pink.

“I saw you chatting with him one night at the Alfred.”

Ajax looked markedly uncomfortable, though Achilles couldn’t half imagine why. “I was drunk,” he said petulantly. Turning to Achilles without looking him in the eye, Ajax said, “Pat… You don’t think he’s a bit off?”

Achilles winced. “He’s just had a rough couple of weeks, but he’s alright really.”

“No. No, I was thinking –”

The waitress returned with Achilles’s coffee order, and Ajax seemed to think better of whatever he had been going to say.

* * *

Patroclus tended to drink too much. Not all the time, but when he drank, he went just a little too far. Achilles could see the drink in the way he moved and talked and smiled, the night Hector and Paris led the Melbourne Uni footy team to victory. The Alfred was packed to the rafters with college boys making a song and dance of their victory, and Patroclus was in the thick of it, smiling because the alcohol permitted it (Patroclus wouldn’t have smiled, without alcohol). His smile had always been suppressed and quiet and rare. Now, lips stretched to a Cheshire grin, Patroclus’s world was surely spinning. Achilles figured he would walk him back to the dorms at some point. Hector was about somewhere, but he didn’t want Hector with him. He didn’t like the idea of Patroclus being pliant and easy for him. He didn’t like the idea of Hector thinking he liked him only because he smiled horribly from being drunk.

But of course, Achilles was no better. Sitting with Graham in a booth sipping bitter beer, Achilles imagined walking Patroclus to the dorms and Patroclus, uninhibited and unrestrained, would talk to him at last. Patroclus might tell Achilles he hated him – might shove his chest and sob until all the tears were wrung from his eyes and finally, Patroclus might tell him he loved him. Patroclus would say it, and Achilles would say it back in a heartbeat, and they would be each other’s. It could be _so_ easy.

And maybe it would have been, except Achilles lost sight of Patroclus in the crowded, smoky pub that Saturday night. Achilles wasn’t dry, and Odysseus had an annoying amount to say about Isaac J and _Engineer’s_ , and he lost track of Patroclus. Upon realising this, Achilles’s only solace was that Hector – man of the hour – was still at the Alfred when Achilles himself eventually left, which meant he wasn’t with Patroclus. And that thought was a comfort, until he heard someone groaning on the football oval.

He couldn’t say how he knew, but he did, and Achilles couldn’t think of a price he wouldn’t have paid for Hector Priamides to have walked his Patroclus back, that night.

* * *

No one had ever told Patroclus that cutting across the footy oval was a bad idea, but he knew it was unwise. During Semester One, when the days were long and sport constant, the oval seemed harmless. On a cool spring night – sometime after eleven – Patroclus understood he was doing something at least a little stupid. The women – well, they were constantly being told not to go anywhere alone, but even blokes heard about uni kids getting jumped around campus after dark. But Patroclus had had a couple of drinks, and wanted to leave the Alfred before Hector could proposition him – Hector could take ‘no’ as an answer, but Patroclus was lousy at giving it, and if he asked for a fuck, Patroclus would have bent over and he wasn’t in the mood.

He grinned to himself as he stumbled across the field – he remembered walking back to the house after he got drunk at Johnny’s party. He had pissed himself only because he had inexplicably felt he needed to listen to Achilles’s orders that he hold it. Nothing had scared him that night, though. When Patroclus was with Achilles, no one else could hurt him. No one except Achilles himself. If Patroclus surrendered to Achilles, Patroclus would never have to worry about saying no to Hector. If Achilles was with him then, on the footy oval, Patroclus would have felt at ease.

But Patroclus was alone, and a little dizzy, and more afraid than he would care to admit.

Patroclus was stupid, was the thing. Not like on tests – Patroclus made decent grades – but in some other way he was too foolish to comprehend. Only his father understood it with any precision – he had cussed out his idiocy over and over and Patroclus had learned by rote that something in him made him slow and lesser, and it hadn’t been cured by good spelling or reading books or being first for maths back in Opus. Patroclus was stupid in other ways, and this was one of them, he thought as he saw a group of men approaching in the dark.

Patroclus felt the hairs on his arm prickle, and he glanced about for Achilles or Hector when he recognised Ajax was amongst the men.

Stupid Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief and carried on across the field. The lads were probably only sauced and wanted to toss a footy. Patroclus wouldn’t join in – he was tired – but he angled his route towards the group, and offered a drunk smile.

“Hi, Ajax.”

By the time Patroclus noticed the eery silence of the group and the presence of Tommy Agamemnon, it was too late to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Obviously there should be a degree of mystery at the end, but please let me know if this chapter makes 0% sense.
> 
> As always, I live for your comments!


	10. Semester Two: Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Sorry this is late! Per usual, I'm still not happy with it, but it is here. Updates might be a bit spotty as I move into the horrible end of semester. Thanks for bearing with me!
> 
> A note - there are monetary values in this chapter. I tried to take into account inflation, so times them by fifteen. ($20 = $300, $200 = $3000)

Patroclus didn’t expect to wake up, and he had made peace with that. He remembered curling up on the grass like the poof he was and covering his face with his hands as they kicked the shit out of him and thinking that dying was probably the best thing for it. If he had died, he wouldn’t feel bruising up his arms and legs or the stabbing in his guts or the numb, puffy disfiguration of his face. He wouldn’t see Achilles sitting in the chair across from him.

He was in hospital, laid up on a stiff bed still in his jeans, though they had removed his shirt and jacket and dressed him in a gown. And Achilles, whose appearance had always been that of an avenging angel, looked as washed out and miserable as anyone by Patroclus’s bedside.

“Patroclus?” Achilles asked groggily, as though the fluttering of Patroclus’s eyelids had startled him from his slumber.

“Yeah,” Patroclus whispered.

“Shit, Pat. Shit, fuck. Who?” he demanded. He looked possessed, Patroclus thought dully. He looked haunted and confused and more mortal and vulnerable than he had ever seen him in his life. And it didn’t matter.

“No one.”

Achilles barked a laugh. “You’re awful good at not snitching, but surely the police will need a statement –”

“And I’ll tell them I didn’t recognise anyone,” Patroclus bit.

“Patroclus… Pat, they could have killed you.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Pat!” Achilles shook his head and scooted his chair closer to the hospital bed. There was blood on Achilles’s shirt. Achilles had hauled him to the hospital, Patroclus thought. Achilles caused half his problems, but he was always the hero. In a low voice, Achilles said, “Patroclus – I know I’m… I’m a pain in the neck, but I – I care about you. You have to know that.”

Patroclus shook his head and made to reach into his back pocket to grab something, but his fingers trembled and his side burned and everything _hurt_.

“Here, let me.” And Achilles reached into the back of Patroclus’s jeans and tugged out a photograph – a year old, impossibly intimate, crumpled and stained with blood. Achilles dropped it as if it caught fire. “No.”

“Yours or Hector’s?” Patroclus croaked.

Achilles picked up the photograph and nursed it in his hands. “Not mine,” he said quietly.

“They gave it to me, before they started… they might have more. Even if the coppers took me seriously, I don’t want trouble.” Achilles sat frozen, staring at the sullied picture, and to his shame, Patroclus softened. “I let him keep them. It’s my own fault.”

“I never should have taken them,” Achilles whispered faintly. “These fucking pictures… God. Fuck!” Achilles jumped up from his chair and began pacing. “Did he threaten you? Did he… did Hector do this?”

“No. At worst he’s shown them to someone he shouldn’t have.”

“Do you think –”

“I don’t know, Achilles,” Patroclus snapped. “I don’t know how they got hold of it. I’ll ask Hector when I get out. I’ll handle it.”

Achilles shook his head, and Patroclus hadn’t noticed before, but his eyes were red. “That day – when I attacked you on the field. When I…” Achilles shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell on me?”

“You know why.”

“Why won’t you say it?” Achilles begged. “Why can’t you just say it?”

“Now?” Patroclus rasped. “You would do this to me _now_?”

“Give me names,” Achilles pleaded. “I’ll show you how much I... Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll make them pay for it.”

“I won’t do that, Achilles.”

And Patroclus wondered if maybe he hadn’t been saved after all, because his eyelids grew heavy again, and he fell once more under the tides of unconsciousness.

Achilles clutched Patroclus’s right hand and stared into his palm – their pact scar bold in his flesh. Achilles kissed it long and hard and bolted, his mind ablaze with possibilities.

* * *

Achilles imagined how he would greet Hector. In most versions, he grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him into his bedroom wall. So, when Hector groggily answered the door that morning, that’s exactly what Achilles did.

“What the hell, Pelides?” Hector asked, but there was fear in him. Achilles could practically smell it. Fear as Patroclus must have felt, drunk and confused on the field, that picture thrust into his hands, fists and feet thrust into his gut...

“The pictures I gave you,” Achilles snarled. “There were ten. Patroclus kept two. If I asked you to return them, how many would you be able to give me?”

Hector frowned. “I… Has something happened?”

“Shouldn’t need space for working – it’s basic maths. How many do you have?”

Hector’s eyes landed on his bedside table, and Achilles released him to clamour toward it and pluck the stack of images from the drawer. “Missing two,” he confessed.

“So you’ve been flashing them around, then?” Achilles ground out.

“I covered Patroclus’s face. I… Has something gone on?”

“Some guys jumped Pat. He’s in hospital. They gave him one of the photos before they got into it, which means they still have the other one. Who’d you show it to?”

“Paris. Ajax –”

“Frank or Joey?” Achilles asked. At Hector’s blank look, he elaborated. “The big Ajax studying Commerce, or the younger Ajax about to finish school?”

“Big Ajax. We’d had a few drinks, he seemed curious. He’s no queer, I don’t think, but he was receptive,” Hector recalled. “He’d be a bit of a hypocrite if he –”

But Achilles was already in motion again. “Patroclus tutors Joey. What’s good for Frankie isn’t good for his kid brother. Goodie two shoes Patroclus who tutors dumb, easily led Joey Ajax – something’s gotta give, and obviously that something is that he’s a deviant.” Achilles gave Hector another perfunctory shove. “Getting sucked off by the Dean’s son is one thing. The things in those pictures – Frank was never gonna understand that. Fuck you, Priamides.”

“I wasn’t the one who started handing around pictures, Pelides,” Hector snapped. “If he took them from me, it was theft; I didn’t say he could have them.”

“I would never have put him in danger,” Achilles bit.

“Except that you did, Pelides,” Hector snarled. Achilles threw a punch and clipped Hector's jaw. Achilles could take him. Hector was an Aussie Rules champion, but he was still hungover from his victory and didn't have it in him to play dirty. Achilles could hurt him, he knew that. He could hurt him like those guys had beat up Patroclus.

_What could Hector possibly do to me that you haven’t already?_

Achilles froze. They weren’t the same – they couldn’t be. Achilles _loved_ Patroclus, and Hector only used him. Achilles loved him, yet Hector’s carelessness was no greater betrayal than what Achilles had done.

“You didn’t know they were going to hurt him?” Achilles managed through his teeth.

“I swear,” Hector vowed. “Is he alright?”

Achilles hated Hector Priamides – hated him almost as much as he hated himself. “A lot of bruising, a couple of fractures.” Achilles clenched his fist, but managed not to plant it in Hector’s mouth. “He’s in a bad way. Exams are coming up–”

“I’ll help him,” Hector said. When Achilles’s face contorted in anger, he continued, “My father – I’ll see about special arrangements, or a tutor through the uni.”

“If he asks for you, you’ll come running – got it?” Achilles said thinly. “If he wants you.”

“I will.” Achilles hated how earnest he sounded.

“If he asks for you,” Achilles repeated. “Otherwise, don’t go near him. If you visit Patroclus with flowers and your big brother act, I will shove your fucking scalpel down your throat.”

Hector nodded evenly. “Alright, Pelides.”

* * *

Achilles tracked Ajax down in the gardens by the School of Botany, eating lunch alone. It was something that surprised many people to know – that Frankie Ajax was something of an introvert, outside of the sports and drinking, and kept company with flowers and nature as often as he could.

“Ajax,” Achilles gave as greeting. “Has Patroclus cancelled Joey for this Friday yet?”

Ajax startled as Achilles plopped himself down beside him in the lush grass. Sensing something was awry, but not the lie to soothe it, Ajax simply stared blankly back at Achilles.

“Patroclus was jumped last night. He’s in bad shape,” Achilles elaborated.

“Oh,” Ajax said dumbly. Then, after a moment, “Might be for the best. I heard he’s a queer.”

Achilles felt his face flicker involuntarily, and Ajax didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew danger when he sensed it, and shuffled a little backward. “Right. Pat’s a poof. Might need you to clarify the definition – maybe put in a new entry for the encyclopedia – because I would’ve thought spending the night with Hector Priamides would make you a queer.”

Ajax flushed red. “I don’t know what he told you –”

“Your moron brother might make uni because of Patroclus, and you got together some of your mates and just about killed him. Christ, Frankie.”

Ajax couldn’t meet his gaze and stared at his thumbs. “I didn’t mean all that,” he mumbled. “I told some of the guys – people should know, Pelides, that he’s… you know. And I showed them these pictures that Hector had – if you’d seen the pictures, you’d –”

Achilles reached into his pocket and thrust Patroclus’s photo into his lap. “Like that?”

Ajax recoiled. “Don’t take that out in public!” He flipped the image over. “Yes,” Ajax hissed in a hushed tone, glancing about at the trees and hedges, as though someone might be listening. “We were a bit wired up, and… I only hit him once.”

Achilles thrust his fist with a decent amount of force into Ajax’s gut, and was pleased when the bigger man hunched over, winded and gagging. “JESUS!”

“You took two photos. You gave one back. Where’s the other one?”

“I don’t have it,” Ajax said quickly. “I thought Tommy would’ve given both over.”

“Thomas Agamemnon?” Achilles asked. “You told Agamemnon the psycho about Pat? He was your friend. _Patroclus_ was your friend.”

“The pictures…” Ajax murmured conspiratorially. “He’s one of those people, Achilles.”

Achilles forced himself to stand up, knowing he would find Agamemnon back in the college dorms, and that pounding Frank Ajax into the ground would not help Patroclus.

Achilles instead flipped over the picture of Patroclus. “Look at him,” he snarled. “Look at his face. He’s crying. Hector’s got a couple of filthy photos of your friend _crying,_ obviously in pain – who’s to say no one’s hurting him, huh? For all you know, you jumped your mate because some guy documented raping him. Your friend.” Achilles moved in closer to Ajax’s ear. “You were scared for your brother? Fucking little tiny Joey who’s bigger than me – scared what big bad Pat might do to him?”

Ajax shuddered. “Pelides–”

“Patroclus is _my_ brother. If you ever touch him again, I’ll kill you. That’s not fucking hyperbole. I’ll drive your dead body all the way to Phthia in the boot of your own fucking car and I’ll fucking bury you.”

Ajax looked horrified, and Achilles left for the dorms.

* * *

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Achilles began, and Agamemnon sneered, one psycho to another, opening the door and letting him in.

“Please, Pelides. Come in.”

Nothing with Agamemnon was ever easy.

“You’re here for the photo, I take it?” Agamemnon asked amicably, as though Achilles might nod, and Agamemnon might rummage through a drawer or two and return the picture without a second thought. But Achilles didn’t say anything, and Agamemnon simply shrugged. “Filthy, isn’t it. Always the quiet ones, though.”

“What do you want?” Achilles asked flatly, as though this was all very tedious, and to speed it up he might simply pluck Daddy’s chequebook from his backpocket. "You want an apology for teasing you and Mickey? I'm sorry. And if it bothers you, I'll tell Patroclus to keep away from Hector."

Agamemnon ignored him. “Ajax was too stupid to think of it, but wasn’t Pat in your father’s care before he came here? That’s what you were always dithering on about - Pat this, Pat that. I’m pretty sure that was the case.”

“What do you want, Tommy?” Achilles snarled.

“In fact,” Agamemnon continued, “I’m pretty sure I can see Pelides Fields out the window. Which begs the question – little Patroclus is making a spectacle of himself, no doubt, but for whom?” Agamemnon pretended to ponder this. “Someone was behind the camera. A tutor? Your father? Of course, families have their secrets. An uncle? Everyone seems to have a stray uncle somewhere in the family tree. But if I was a gambling man, I would say it was you, Achilles. Because it wasn’t Hector – how would Hector have known Pat back then? You or Pat shared these photos yourselves.”

“Just give me the photo,” Achilles said, deadly calm. “Give it to me, and we’ll be done with it.”

“You didn’t think it would be that easy. Let’s talk this through, Pelides, because where I stand, I have the picture. I know how to interpret the picture – that the Pelides heir at the very least has a taste for boys, at worst raped and photographed his father’s ward in lewd acts. And Pat – obviously Pat won’t want these getting out, but what he could possibly do to prevent it is beyond me. You could beat it out of me, of course, but you’ll be expelled and likely arrested. And when the police ask _why_ I was pummelled and my room destroyed, how easy it will be to tell them about the picture – which Ajax and Hector can confirm. So I really don’t know what you have to barter with.”

“Money?” Achilles suggested, keeping his tone bored.

“I have quite a bit of that. And as an investment – I’m of the impression this will appreciate in value.”

“How’s twenty dollars sound?” Achilles asked. “For a dirty picture – more than reasonable.”

“No deal, Pelides. I’d consider two hundred.”

“Two hundred’s a bit much. It isn’t _that_ good. I could do one hundred.”

“Really tempting, Pelides, but I’ll hold on to it. Thanks.”

* * *

“Hector fucked around with Ajax one night and showed him some of the pictures. He covered your face, apparently, but Ajax must’ve used both braincells to nick two when Hector fell asleep. I got the rest back from Hector. Agamemnon has one, and he’s being difficult about it. I’ll see if I can’t get money from Father and…” Achilles trailed off.

Achilles had got them back to Trinity in a cab that evening, and though Patroclus could walk, every step was an effort. Lying in bed in his dorm, Patroclus looked worse. Achilles knew that wasn’t really the case – it was only that the bruising had darkened – but it took a moment for Achilles to take in how black Patroclus’s left eye had turned.

“I’ll get money,” Achilles promised. “Or I’ll kill him. Give me a day or two – I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“T-Tommy has it?” Patroclus mumbled. The hospital had given him something for the pain, and it made him disoriented.

“Yeah. Yeah, Tommy has it. But I’ll get it back from him.”

“Money won’t work on Tommy,” Patroclus said hopelessly.

“Everyone has a price. I’ll get enough. Or… Fuck. I’ll beat it out of him.”

“You’ll get sent down.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you get sent down, your father might withdraw his support for me.” Patroclus’s voice trembled. “If you ask for money on my behalf, what if he…?”

“I won’t tell him it’s about you,” Achilles assured him. “Whatever happens, you’ll be here next year. I promise, Patroclus.”

“Just… I have no reputation to lose. Maybe it doesn’t really matter.”

Achilles winced. “Who was behind the camera, Pat?”

It took Patroclus a moment to take Achilles’s point. When it dawned on him, he laughed darkly. “Of course. You _do_ have a reputation to think of. You’re right – we’ll have to get it off him before he makes a copy.” Patroclus swallowed. “Could you ask Briseis to come by?”

Achilles felt it like a punch to the gut. “Yeah,” he said, his mouth dry. “Yeah, I’ll get Briseis for you.” Achilles hesitated. “It might be a bit late tonight. Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

Patroclus didn’t elaborate, so Achilles simply sat himself down at Patroclus’s desk and waited for him to fall asleep, before calling the women’s college and leaving a message for Briseis to come by the following morning.

* * *

“Father,” Achilles began after he successfully connected to his Phthia residence. It had taken some wangling at the front desk to use the phone so late at night, but eventually he had leveraged Patroclus’s injuries sufficiently to get ten minutes to place a call. After he called the women's college, he quickly called his father before he could be shooed away. “I… How are you?”

Achilles heard laughter at the end of the line. “Things are as usual. It’s not like you to call so late at night.” Another chuckle followed. “It’s not like you to call, full stop.”

Achilles winced. “Right. Forgive me. I’m afraid it’s an emergency. You see…” Achilles swallowed. The lie was embarrassing, and he felt shame in saying it, but the truth was ten times worse. “You see I took to gambling a little. Here and there – but of course it adds up. I’m a good amount out, now, and I can’t pay them back. And they’re all from the law school – it’s my fault, of course, but it doesn’t do to make a name for yourself as a man who cannot pay his debts.”

Achilles’s father sighed heavily on the other end of the call. “I’m disappointed to hear that.”

“I know.” Achilles squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath. “Two hundred dollars. I need it as fast as you can wire it across. Tomorrow – Monday morning, if you could. I’m afraid I let it go too long, and there might be trouble soon.”

“Trouble?” Another sigh - Achilles's father _was_ disappointed, but not particularly surprised. “Wasn’t Bambi meant to keep you out of trouble?”

“It would be four hundred, if not for Patroclus,” Achilles said quickly. “And I’d be down a finger or two.”

“You’ll work the whole summer to pay this off,” Mr Pelides said at last. “I’ll get it to you Monday morning because I fancy you’ll be less useful around the farm without your fingers. I don’t expect to have to bail you out again, Achilles.”

“No. No, thank you. Of course not. First and last time.”

“That was all?”

“Yes,” Achilles murmured. “That was all.”

But his father had already hung up the phone.

When Achilles made it back to his own room, he procured a pen and paper and began to write - 

_Dear Mummy..._

* * *

Patroclus had always known Achilles liked it when he was sick. Perhaps that was unfair to say, but it was true for as long as Patroclus could remember. Like with the nightmares, Achilles would come to his room and dote on him, an armistice called on the strange tension that had always existed between them.

 _You can’t skip class,_ Patroclus had muttered when he caught the flu in their second last year of school in Phthia. _Come on – I’ll be here when you finish with simultaneous equations._

_Chiron’s already taken the day – he’s out and about. Couldn’t go to class if I wanted to._

Achilles had, no doubt, all but pushed Chiron out the door.

Achilles proceeded to bring him breakfast, before all but carrying him down in his pyjamas to sit beneath the autumn sun to eat sandwiches at lunchtime. Achilles would periodically press his palm against Patroclus’s forehead, and regularly ran back inside to fetch him glasses of water.

Achilles could only reconcile tenderness with Patroclus being somehow debilitated, so he was always kindest during the nightmares, or illness, or Patroclus’s spells of misery. Now, with Patroclus laid up from a beating, Achilles handled him gently and knelt by his bedside.

“I have a cheque from Father,” Achilles said in a hushed voice. It was Monday noon – Achilles had worked fast. “Two hundred dollars. That was the figure Tommy threw around. I’ll give that a go.”

“Don’t you have class?”

Achilles’s face creased into something partway between amusement and pain. “I won’t have class until this is sorted out. Has Briseis been by?”

Briseis had come over first thing in the morning and had talked it over with Patroclus. She had been outraged – like Achilles, she had an energetic anger and had paced the length of his room talking about police and the student magazine and the Dean and _he can’t get away with this._ And then Patroclus had had to break it to her that he was not a perfect victim. _Even so – they can’t beat up anyone they think might be a queer._

_They have… There are pictures, Brie._

It had been uncomfortable. Briseis was open-minded, but there was a squeamishness there. Patroclus had explained only that Tommy had come into possession of a picture of him in a compromising position – deviant. Homosexual. Explicit. She had tried so hard not to judge him, and that had made it all the worse – _A kiss? Perhaps it’s ambiguous –_

 _Brie… It’s not ambiguous. Anyone who saw the pictures… They’re bad, even for what I am._ Patroclus felt vile. The thought of _Briseis_ having anything to do with the pictures made his stomach knot up, and he would never have drawn her into it except it was now a liability for Achilles too. _You mentioned… I might be off base, but you mentioned something about Tommy I might be able to use. I hate to even ask, but Achilles might be able to get some money…_

“Yes. Briseis'll be calling by in the next hour. We hatched something of a plan.”

Achilles frowned. “The plan is that I take this cheque to Tommy and scare the shit out of him.”

“No.”

Achilles swallowed. He kept his temper in check, but he was clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “ _The plan_ ,” Achilles repeated cautiously, “is that you stay here and Briseis stays out of it, and I get Tommy to –”

“No,” Patroclus said, his voice hardened. “You don’t get to… do what you’ve done, then tell me how this goes. Give me the cheque, and once Briseis gets back to me, _I’ll_ be speaking to Tommy.”

“You’re not going anywhere near Tommy Agamemnon. Are you crazy? After what he did?”

Patroclus remembered the night in bits and pieces. Remembered greeting Ajax. Remembered the accusations – the things they called him – and the picture. They had given him the picture, and Patroclus had been sure he would throw up, and after they all laid in, he had. There were others – Patroclus had recognised Tommy, Mickey and Ajax, but there were two or three other guys there for muscle who made up for the fact that Mickey and Ajax were reluctant to swing. But Tommy had made a good effort – rolled up his sleeves, got his licks in – and had kicked Patroclus even when he crumpled onto the dewy grass. It had been Tommy’s boot driving into Patroclus gut, chest, face.

“I know exactly what Tommy did to me,” Patroclus whispered. “I know what Ajax did. I know what Hector did. I know what you did, Achilles.” Achilles flinched. “And I know it’s my fault too. If Briseis confirms what we talked about, I’ll speak to Tommy. If she doesn’t, you’re free to try. But if you take the cheque against my will and negotiate without giving me the chance and you fail…” Patroclus blinked. “I forgive you most things, but I don’t know I could forgive you that.”

Achilles sat frozen in place for a long time. “You’ll… you’ll let me wait outside, won’t you? If he touches you…” Achilles laughed miserably. “I forgive myself most things,” he parroted, “but I can’t… If he touches you again…”

Achilles, his protector. He sat by Patroclus’s bed like a guard dog and would defend him against all others, only to occasionally get a nip in himself. Even so, Patroclus almost beckoned Achilles to climb into bed with him.

 _Achilles,_ he had once chided, _you’ll catch the flu too._

 _We are always together,_ Achilles had murmured proudly as he borrowed into Patroclus’s blankets. _If you’re sick, it’s only a matter of time until I am too. And I know when I’m sick, you’ll stay with me?_

It had sounded like a marriage vow, and Patroclus had almost remarked upon it. _Of course,_ he had said instead, and Achilles had smiled with the tenderness that came when Patroclus was beaten down.

“Go to class,” Patroclus said tiredly. “Please. Go to class. Briseis will come while you’re out, and I won’t make a move until you’re back. I promise.”

Achilles looked helpless as he never had in childhood. “I won’t be able to concentrate.”

“I’m asking.”

Achilles nodded slowly. “Alright. Just… please wait for me, yeah?”

After a beat, Patroclus nodded and Achilles reluctantly made to leave. As he turned the door handle, however, Achilles cast a look back over his shoulder. “You mustn’t forgive me this,” he said in a low voice. “I am more sorry than I can say, but don’t… Don’t forgive me.”

Patroclus grinned from his cocoon of blankets. “I will hate myself if I do, but that has always come easier than hating you, Achilles.” Achilles paled and his hand retracted from the door handle as if he might fall back onto his knees by Patroclus’s bed, but Patroclus shook his head. “Please go. I’ll be here when you come back.”

Achilles sitting up beside him in bed balancing _The Hobbit_ on his knees as Patroclus drifted in and out of consciousness to the melody of his voice. The feeling of Achilles’s palm on his forehead. The sound of Achilles pestering the housekeeper or his father about medicine or chicken soup or a hospital.

Achilles nodded from across the room. “Rest up. I’ll be back by four.”

Patroclus wished he felt relieved when Achilles left, but the phantoms of his half dreams were all Achilles, and the Achilleses of his mind were kinder, but they couldn’t hold him as his Achilles in the flesh might. As he tossed and turned in wait of Briseis, Patroclus reached for anger to hurl at Achilles – tried to collate his sins. But he was too tired.

 _What would Smaug talk like?_ asked Achilles perched at the end of his bed. Achilles was better at reading aloud – he did the voices when it was just the two of them, and it always made Patroclus laugh. Achilles would tweak them – make them far-fetched and fantastical – when Patroclus needed cheering. _Like this?_ Achilles growled, deep as his voice would go. _Or like this?_ This time, Achilles put on his most aristocratic English accent. _What if he spoke like an Aussie? Let’s see…_

Patroclus laughed then. He was glad for the ache in his body, for otherwise it would have been too easy to sprint down the corridor and beg Achilles come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Just to give you a trajectory of the fic - we probably have one more chapter of Semester Two, then maybe a couple set over the summer, and we will be finished. So not too long left, now.
> 
> Just a note - Achilles makes a somewhat unfair jibe at Ajax about Patroclus not being a threat to his brother because Joey is huge. Obviously people can predate on people bigger than them. Achilles is lashing out. Fundamentally, Joey isn't at risk from Patroclus because Patroclus is a decent dude.
> 
> As always, your comments brighten my day!


	11. Semester Two: Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Note new tag - there is discussion of abortion in this chapter (not graphic). This includes some period typical attitudes. See end notes for more.

Patroclus leaned heavily against Tommy Agamemnon’s door. He felt terrible, and wouldn’t feel better until he took his night-time meds, but he wanted his wits about him. True to his word, Achilles was listening outside for any commotion – but Patroclus didn’t want it to come to that.

“You’ve come yourself,” Tommy remarked, sitting up in bed on the other side of the room. “I expected your boyfriend. Or your cousin. How _do_ you refer to him?”

Patroclus took a deep breath and nodded calmly. “Cousin,” he murmured.

Tommy rolled his eyes, as if Patroclus was horribly boring. “But you’ve come perfectly alone. I suppose you get your way with your _cousin_ by offering all sorts. You know, I’ve never known a woman to do what you did in those pictures. Pelides is always singing your praises – now I feel I understand why. Disgusting, of course – and I won’t be ordering off the menu, if that’s what you thought you’d barter with. But I am impressed – not least of all that you can walk.”

Patroclus felt dread and shame and loathing – more for himself than for Tommy – pool in his gut. But it was a familiar sensation. Perhaps Achilles had been training him particularly for this moment, for although Patroclus felt his bruise swollen cheeks grow warmer, but he did not falter. “I think you are under a misapprehension, Tommy.”

Tommy grinned. “Surely you won’t deny it’s you in the picture?”

“No. No, I don’t think I can. But that’s all it is – it’s me, and my proclivities.”

Tommy eyed Patroclus up and down. He mulled over Patroclus’s statement until he realised his meaning. “Ah, of course. You are trying to cover for Pelides.”

“I’m afraid he has long been covering for me,” Patroclus said. “He had nothing to do with the pictures.”

“I don’t believe you. Someone was behind the camera –”

“The Pelides farm is teeming with farmhands year-round, and even more so in spring and summer. It’s me or the sheep – every summer since I was fifteen, I found one amongst the workers who’d have a go.”

Patroclus watched an expression of disgust and contempt cross Tommy’s face, and for a moment, he thought he might need Achilles to intervene after all. “That’s beyond foul,” Tommy muttered. Patroclus could, however, see doubt form beneath the hatred. “No. No – it’s Pelides –”

“It isn’t. And why would anyone believe it was? You want to keep it to blackmail him. I’ll be the first to say it; it’s embarrassing for the Pelideses that they kept me in their home when I did all that, but that’s all it is. I’m the black sheep of the family, and that’s all they’d have to say to defend themselves if you used what you think you know against them.” Patroclus spoke in a low, calm voice. This, at least, was mostly true. The picture was easily rebuttable, but he had downplayed the damage that would come of its circulation.

“Whatever the case, I think it’s worth keeping around. Like you said, Pelides covers for you.”

“The picture will humiliate me. It might get me into a lot of trouble and I would have to make up stories to get myself out – say I was underage, that the whole thing was by force. Achilles can at least help with that – he knows something of the law. You were engaged to Kitty Tyndareus in August, weren’t you?” Patroclus asked smoothly.

Tommy’s head shot up at the turn in conversation. “Yes.”

“Kitty isn’t like Helen. Everyone from here to Broome knows Helen’s still on with Paris Priamides, but Mickey won’t give her up because she’s too good of a catch. Kitty takes it rather more seriously, and thinks you do too,” Patroclus said. His head hurt, and his mouth was dry, and the look on Tommy’s face wasn’t so far removed from how he had looked when he laid into him on the football oval. But he had to do this. Patroclus licked his lips and continued. “You were engaged in August, but you had a girl in trouble less than two weeks ago.”

Tommy paled and stood up from his bed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s not the only one – so I accept it’s possible you don’t know _who_ I’m talking about – but don’t play dumb, Tommy.” Patroclus smiled one of Achilles’s smiles. “You have a picture of me looking like a whore, and I would _love_ to see someone stumble across it in your possession, Agamemnon. I really would. But I’d just as soon have it back. And if you don’t give it back, I’ll get a word in with Kitty that you’ve been fucking around getting women pregnant while you were going steady. Kitty is the sort to call an engagement off over that – and it might be a good enough excuse for Helen to get out of marrying poor Mickey.”

“She’d never believe you.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Patroclus dared, taking another step closer. “You likely don’t remember the girl’s name, but she has a letter from you from when you paid for it to be taken care of – dated and signed. And of course, I’m close to Hector – whose brother has the ear of Helen, and would be plenty eager to see both engagements called off. Do you think I can’t?” Patroclus asked softly. “Do you think I won’t?”

Tommy’s mouth fell open, but no sound emerged.

“I don’t care one way or another if you marry Kitty. If you give me the picture, I’ll keep my trap shut, and she can have you. But if you don’t give it to me, I will see your very advantageous union never comes to pass. Do you understand? And you can retaliate. You showed the pictures to a couple of uni mates, and they beat the shit out of me after a few drinks, but have you considered that perhaps it’s _so_ unsavoury – _so_ very unpalatable – that the people you would hope to circulate it amongst wouldn’t want to dirty their hands with it?”

Tommy blinked back at him, and Patroclus understood that he was, for the first time, observing a likeness between him and Achilles. But Achilles would have rushed in hot to defend him – Patroclus was winning only because he could speak coldly of his own ruin. “How do I know you won’t tell Kitty anyway? If I give you the picture – how can I be sure you won’t tell anyone what you think you know?”

“I suppose you can’t be sure. But you can be certain I will if you don’t.” Patroclus sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “You have my word that neither I nor Achilles will interfere with your affairs if you give me the picture now. If you don’t return it, I guarantee I will do all I have said, and though you think you are safe to hold us hostage with the photo, you will live with the paranoia that the first chance he gets, Achilles will find a way to get even. And that won’t be single punch of frustration like with Ajax – it’ll be very serious and likely permanent.”

“That’s a threat!”

“It is,” Patroclus murmured, looking into Tommy’s eyes expressionlessly.

Tommy’s face flickered between terror and hubris, but fear won out. “Everyone knows what you are,” Tommy Agamemnon snarled and he stomped towards his wardrobe and sought out a particular blazer’s breast pocket. “With or without photographic proof. Everyone knows.”

“I suppose so.” Patroclus held out a hand and almost betrayed himself by sighing in relief when Tommy pressed the picture into his palm. “A pleasure doing business.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy spat.

“Here I was thinking you wouldn’t have me,” Patroclus said with a crooked grin he half thought Tommy would beat off his face. “But if it’s just the same, I’ll go without.”

* * *

“So?” Achilles asked hastily as Patroclus emerged from Agamemnon’s room some minutes after entering. There had been no raised voices, nor any commotion to speak of, but Achilles wasn’t convinced that was inherently a good sign. “You got it back?” Patroclus shook his head and they walked in silence until they reached Patroclus’s room where Achilles about burst – “Yes or no – did you…”

Patroclus wordlessly produced the picture, folded in half to conceal the image. “Take it,” Patroclus said roughly.

“I don’t want it.”

“Take it,” Patroclus ordered, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Alright. I’ll get rid of it.” Achilles took the photo and slipped it neatly into his pocket. “He took the cheque?”

“No,” Patroclus murmured. “The cheque isn’t for Agamemnon. It’s for Chryseis.”

“Who the fuck–”

“Agamemnon has money,” Patroclus snapped. Achilles had not been able to make out words, but he knew Patroclus had negotiated smoothly. Now, with Achilles, he spoke in an agitated, clipped tone. “Money doesn’t work on people like him. Chryseis has evidence of Agamemnon corresponding with her dated after his engagement to Kitty – he made her get an abortion. I threatened to reveal proof of his indiscretions to his fiancée unless he gave me the picture back. That’s what Briseis was doing – asking Chryseis if I could use her misfortune to blackmail Tommy. It was a risk, but he spooked well enough.”

“So what are you paying off Chryseis for?”

Patroclus turned on him. “Do you think I’m proud that I trotted out a girl’s horrific circumstances to save myself _and_ you from a bloody sex scandal? She’s still a mess about the whole thing, and I’ve used her – it’s beyond foul, and the only reason I can live with it at all is because this cheque will be a significant help to her family, and she’s too afraid of Agamemnon to do anything to hold him accountable on her own. But it’s… it’s a disgusting thing to have done to save our skins.”

Achilles swallowed. “I… I’m happy for her to have the money. I am. I only didn’t know that was what it was for, but it’d serve her better than Tommy anyway.”

“Good,” Patroclus said curtly, making to proceed.

“Pat… Patroclus… Give me the cheque and her address and I’ll get it to her. I promise I will. Please just… please just get some rest. Please, Patroclus.” Achilles placed himself between Patroclus and the door. “Go to bed. Please.”

Patroclus hesitated. “You’ll give it to her?”

“I will. You have my word.”

Patroclus stared at him blankly, before nodding slowly, as if all the day’s energy left him at once. It took Achilles a moment to realise Patroclus was holding his breath, his bruise swollen eyes swimming with tears he didn’t allow to spill over. Achilles didn’t stop to think before he pulled Patroclus against his body.

“I’m sorry,” Achilles whispered as Patroclus shuddered against him. “I’m so sorry, Patroclus. I’m so sorry.”

Maybe Patroclus lacked the strength to shove Achilles away, but he remained in Achilles’s embrace as Achilles guided him to bed. Patroclus had blackmailed Thomas Agamemnon – had outspoken him and outsmarted him and forced his hand. Patroclus had done a spectacular thing, but it was also a wretched thing, and he would not have done it for himself. It should have been Achilles, but Patroclus had been right – he would have blown it. Achilles had made the mess, and Patroclus had compromised his principles and integrity to clean it up for him.

“Pat… I can find a reason for you to stay in Melbourne, this summer. Or… or me. Either way,” Achilles said, fetching Patroclus the glass of water that sat on his desk.

“No,” Patroclus murmured. “I’ve been gone for too long.”

“Then I’ll –”

“No,” Patroclus repeated wearily, taking a sip of the water and setting it down. “No. I missed you during Winter Break.” He laughed humourlessly, meeting Achilles’s eyes one last time. “I miss you too, Achilles.”

* * *

“What happened to your hand?”

The girl had raptures of fine dark hair and the bluest eyes Achilles had ever seen. Chryseis was striking. She truly had been misfortunate to cross paths with Agamemnon. A rich man with a sense of honour would have had her for his wife, Achilles thought, regardless of her circumstances. She reminded him of someone – not in looks, but in affect…

“Nothing,” Achilles said hurriedly, moving his grazed knuckles out of sight. “The cheque’s from Patroclus. He’s in a bad way, so I… Thank you. For helping.”

“You’ve punched something. A tree? The wound’s dirty. Let me clean it for you before you go.”

Achilles winced, uncomfortable under the veranda of the girl’s narrow North Melbourne home. An hour ago he had not known of her existence, and now he owed her the world.

“No need,” Achilles said.

“Come on. I don’t bite.”

Chryseis led Achilles through the rabbit warren of a house into the kitchen, where she produced clean cloth and rubbing alcohol from the cabinet beneath her cluttered kitchen sink.

“Briseis told me the money’s coming from your family.” She glanced up at him as she took his bulky hand between hers. “You’re Achilles Pelides, aren’t you? The boy in trouble was Pat Pelides?”

“I – yes. Yes.” Achilles winced in pain as Chryseis pressed the cloth against his raw skin.

“Are you angry over it?” she asked. “Having to pay me on your cousin’s behalf?”

Achilles almost laid down assurances that he very much wanted her to have the money, but something about the emptiness of her enormous eyes suggested she lacked the will to fight generosity. She was only curious, maybe. “No. I’m angry at myself. I got Pat into this mess. And you, I guess.”

“Oh.” Chryseis frowned. “Are you sorry for me?”

“Yeah.” Achilles grimaced and leaned back against the kitchen bench. “Sorry. Maybe I’m stepping on your pride.”

“No. No… I’ve no pride. But don’t be sorry for me. You got Pat in trouble – did something to get him jumped by… by Tommy?” Chryseis asked as she tucked the alcohol away and began boiling water for tea.

“Yeah. It was my fault.”

“Well, I killed my baby. So don’t be sorry for me.”

She reminded him of his mother, Achilles realised.

“Pat said so,” Achilles said blandly. “I… I’m progressive about things like that,” he mumbled.

Chryseis stared blankly back at him. “I’m not.”

It was the coldness, Achilles thought. The oceans between them that made him recall the summer of ’56. “Did he make you?”

“No. But he wouldn’t have taken responsibility, so that’s that.”

“My mother…” Achilles swallowed. “I understand – for some women it’s…” Achilles’s tongue felt heavy all of a sudden, the words jumbled. “The circumstances – she couldn’t take responsibility for me. She should have…”

How old had he been when he first had that thought? Patroclus had been around. Mr Chiron had elaborated about pregnancy and abortion and Achilles had realised that he might have been cleaned up rather neatly. He had banished the thought, back then. He had looked to Patroclus, and imagined that maybe Patroclus needed him – that Patroclus, who had killed a boy and was also unloved, was better off that he had come to term and been shipped back to Melbourne with Father and a French maid who left Phthia the day he stopped breastfeeding. And maybe, Achilles thought numbly, Patroclus had been better off back then. But he wasn’t anymore.

“It’s better to kill it, than for it to grow up unloved, maybe,” Achilles muttered.

“Did I say I didn’t love it?” Chryseis mused. “I don’t think I did.”

“Sorry. I was thoughtless.”

“I don’t know if I loved it. Feelings have a way of getting confused. Briseis told me when it all happened that my baby was smaller than a mouse. It was a mouse that might have been my baby. I might have loved a baby. I don’t know if I loved the mouse.” Chryseis paused, took a breath. She wasn’t so masterful as Achilles’s mother had been. Mother’s emotions had been played off as huffs of irritation, batted away like flies. Chryseis seemed still to plead with her feelings to leave her well enough alone. “Your mother kept you. Perhaps she loved you when you were only a mouse.”

“She doesn’t care for me now.”

“Has she said so?” Chryseis asked.

“Yes.”

Chryseis shrugged and handed Achilles a cup of tea. “Then maybe she doesn’t. Or maybe she doesn’t want to. Sometimes you get to choose how you feel.”

 _We didn’t choose it,_ Patroclus had said. _We have only named it._

“You get to name it,” Achilles muttered. “All the joy and attachment and… and pain. You get to name it. With declarations of love, or a ring, or…” Or a scarred palm. “She likes me, now. We are alike. Maybe that’s love misnamed, or she’s chosen it – I can’t say – but we…” Achilles cut himself off. “Sorry. Stupid thing to talk about.”

Chryseis shrugged limply. “Nothing bothers me much.”

Achilles observed her carefully. The conversation had bothered her. Achilles bothered her. The tree branch scratching at the window and the sound of cars driving on the street bothered her. Chryseis’s eyes danced from distraction to nuisance to sufferance and perhaps it was only that they were of an age that Achilles understood all this in a way he hadn’t with his mother three years prior. It made Achilles wonder what he had missed, that day at the beach. Achilles’s mother had spoken of pretending to be human, but it occurred to him that perhaps she was only pretending _not_ to be – that it was difficult to be human, and easier, in the long run, to arm oneself against feeling anything but cruelty and pleasure.

Pretending was a powerful thing, of course. People form patterns and habits through repetition, and it was possible his mother had calcified – that even had he been more astute that day in St Kilda, Achilles would not have found the slightest trace of warmth. But he still saw reluctant traces in Chryseis, and, as she walked him back onto the street, he thought it would be shame if she pressed herself to lose it.

* * *

When Achilles returned to Trinity, Briseis was outside the main entrance, her hands occupied by olive green yarn that she seemed to be knitting in the shape of mittens, though it was already too warm to wear them. Achilles almost took the back route to avoid her, but he forced himself to approach her.

“Are you waiting for Pat?” he asked roughly, though he knew she was not. Patroclus would be in bed for the next week.

“No. I saw him before. Pelides… Look. I know we aren’t friends, but I care about Patroclus and I mind if he’s okay or not. Is he okay?” she asked. Briseis’s eyes were black and penetrating, and Achilles felt he was a specimen pressed between glass beneath a microscope.

“No,” Achilles murmured. “We… we fixed it best as we could about Agamemnon. Thanks to you and Chryseis, there shouldn’t be scandal. But he’s not… he’s not okay. I don’t know how he’ll get through the rest of semester – the timing…”

Briseis nodded her understanding. “I’ll help him. Of course.”

“Hector…” The name stuck in Achilles’s throat. “Hector’s father… Something might be worked out?” Achilles winced at Briseis’s confusion and closed his eyes in an attempt to straighten out his thoughts. “I’m not… on speaking terms with Priamides, per se, but he might be able to get Pat some leeway. I hate to impose, but you’re better positioned to follow that up at any rate…?

“Ah. I… Is Hector involved in this?” Briseis asked.

Achilles shrugged blandly. “It’s not my place to say. He wasn’t with the guys who jumped Pat.”

“Alright. I’ll speak with Hector,” Briseis agreed, but she didn’t make any move to leave. There was something on her mind. “I assume you know the full story. He doesn’t tell me everything, but I suppose you know all about what happened.”

“Yes,” Achilles said stiffly. “I know all of it.”

“Those guys jumped him because he’s a homosexual,” Briseis said, the word ‘homosexual’ foreign on her tongue, but said without contempt. “Will he be safe with you over the summer?”

Achilles couldn’t help it – he laughed. “Pat likes girls just fine. But that’s… that’s the gist of it. They knew he liked guys.” Achilles stuffed his fists in his pockets and sighed. “If you can convince him to stay in Melbourne with you… That’d be better for him. But I’ll… I’ll do my best, if he persists about Phthia.”

“Huh,” Briseis mused. “I suppose I assumed…” She shook her head. “I misjudged you, I think. Patroclus said during the ski trip that you were always decent to him. It was lucky he had you. Even for the likes of us, it’s not easy getting such a sum out of our parents. And you lied on his behalf to get it.”

“Gambling debts,” Achilles said, his voice gravel. “But you didn’t misjudge me. Is there any chance you might change your mind about him? He is perfectly capable of loving a woman.”

Briseis’s face contorted as if she had taken offence to Achilles’s words. “Change _my_ mind?”

Achilles felt his guts turn. Of course, he thought, this had only been a comedy of errors. “Patroclus was under the impression you weren’t… open to offers. I think Pat was mistaken. Or am I wrong?”

Briseis’s mouth opened and closed several times before she composed herself. “When did he say so?”

“Semester One. Am I right, then?”

“You’re wrong, but not how you might think.” Briseis stood up and forced her knitting into her handbag. “I approached Patroclus about my feelings over Winter Break, and he refused me. He said there was someone else.”

Achilles shuddered. “Oh.”

“Yes.” She took a step closer to Achilles, watching his eyes. “Can you think who that might be?”

Achilles felt the air freeze in his chest and it was a moment before he remembered how to breathe. “Yes,” he said in a strangled voice. “Yes, I think I know.”

“Will he be safe with you over the summer?” Briseis asked again, her voice low and dangerous.

“Have him, if you can,” Achilles said tightly. “He’d be better off –”

“I’m asking if you’ll kick the shit out of him,” Briseis hissed. “I’m asking if you’ll bust his ribs and break his nose with the toe of your boot –”

“I won’t. I won’t… I…” Achilles felt his throat betray him. “I wish it had’ve been me. It should’ve been no one, but it should’ve been me.” Achilles held her gaze – invited her scrutiny, begged her judgement. “I can’t tell you how, but it was my fault.”

Briseis physically recoiled. “Did you give Tommy the picture?”

“I may as well have.” Achilles grinned in spite of himself – Briseis could not hide her hostility. Briseis could not comprehend that Patroclus could love someone so vile. “If you misjudged me at all, it was in giving me too much credit. Keep him from me for the summer… Forever, even…” Achilles’s wounded hand itched to lash out at gravel or granite or glass – something capable of ripping open flesh and fracturing bone. “He’s never been safe with me.”

Briseis’s lip curled in disgust. “You accused me, once, of thinking myself above Pat, yet you… You are the _only_ fault I find in him. Like a blemish on the back of his neck – you should almost be endearing – but you, Achilles Pelides, are malignant. And if it’s as simple as cutting you out of him, I will try, but I fear it’s too late for that.”

Achilles watched her walk away. Briseis Antony could be razor sharp and ice cold, but she wasn’t so to Patroclus. That was how it was supposed to be, Achilles thought. It made him a little glad to think that there was someone capable of loving Patroclus correctly.

* * *

Achilles sat by Patroclus’s bed. His tongue felt numb and his throat hurt and his eyes stung and all the adrenalin that had kept him animated over the past two days had left him. Achilles flexed his fingers, focusing on the sharp pain of his grazed knuckles.

“You take your pain meds?” Achilles asked, his voice restrained.

“Yeah,” Patroclus murmured drowsily.

“But you’re still with me?”

“Mhmm.”

Achilles nodded and closed his eyes. “I gave Chryseis the cheque. Now we just have to figure out the rest of semester. When I spoke to Hector, he seemed to think you might be able to get some concessions with exams, and maybe a tutor. Otherwise, Briseis seems happy to help. If nothing else, I’ll see if I can’t afford someone to spend some time with you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Achilles felt his chest tighten. It felt like he was about to explode – like he needed to throw up and sob and hit something. “Why do I do it, Patroclus?”

Patroclus groaned a little as he sat up in bed. “Hm?”

“You said…” Achilles laughed harshly – even now, he imposed on Patroclus. “You said you let me get away with it because you understand why I do it. Why do I do it?”

Patroclus sighed long and heavy. “Because no one ever taught you how to love a person. No one ever showed you.”

Achilles managed to swallow his scream, to contain his violence, but silent tears tracked his cheeks in an avalanche. “Yeah?”

Patroclus stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. I remember arriving in Phthia and you… you convinced yourself that you didn’t need it from your dad, and you didn’t want it from the townie kids, and whatever happened when you met your mum… I know it was just me, Achilles. I know.” Patroclus took a breath. “But I was a kid too. I tried. I _tried_ , but… But no one taught me either.”

_Christ. You actually love me, don’t you?_

Achilles remembered the day after the incident on the back paddock – Patroclus’s flush cheeks, how he lied about it to Father and Chiron, how embarrassed he had been. Patroclus _had_ loved him. He, who had known less warmth even than Achilles, had tried so hard to show him love.

Back when Achilles was only at the school in town, there had been a girl with a prominent stutter. It was always embedded in her speech, but sometimes the other kids would tease her for it, and that always made it worse. Achilles had not ridiculed the girl, but he had done a similar thing to Patroclus – Patroclus had tried so hard to express his love for him, and Achilles had humiliated him for it, forcing the words ever deeper down his throat.

Achilles almost begged for the words again – almost preyed upon Patroclus at his most vulnerable, almost tore the words free of whatever dark corner of his heart they had retreated to.

“You did a good job,” Achilles said instead. “The way I was before you came – I might’ve killed someone just for fun.”

Patroclus barked a laugh.

“I’ll forgive you if you stop trying, Patroclus,” Achilles whispered. “You don’t have to try anymore.”

Patroclus laughed again, but this time it subsided into painful gasps and shudders. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Achilles scrambled up to the bed and curled in close to Patroclus without pressing against his bruises. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you. I’m here. It’s… it’s gotta be whatever they’re giving you for the pain. I know, I know. You’re alright. It’s only the meds.” Achilles listened as Patroclus matched his breath. Doused in moonlight, Achilles saw Patroclus’s eyes in the dark. “Remember when I drove us to the spring social when you were sixteen? In Father’s Ford?” Achilles placed a hand on Patroclus’s neck and felt him nod. “You fell asleep on the way home. I watched you a little while like a real creep, even once we pulled up in the driveway. I wanted to kiss you awake. Even then.” Achilles felt Patroclus shiver beneath his touch, and he swallowed the lump in his throat to press on. “I didn’t, of course. I would have lost my mind if you rejected me. But you… you would have kissed me back, wouldn’t you, Pat?”

Patroclus’s face crumbled, a moan like a wounded animal escaping his throat.

“I know, now,” Achilles whispered shakily. “You would have kissed me back like a fairy-tale. But I didn’t and I know I’ve broken it, Patroclus. I know, I know, I know.” Patroclus nestled in closer to him, and Achilles felt the familiar tremors that shook through his body. “It was me. It was me most of all, and I promise it won’t ever be me again, Patroclus. The damage is done, but I won’t ever… I’m making sure of it. I won’t hurt you again.”

Achilles held Patroclus until he fell asleep, before sitting himself down at Patroclus’s desk lest the nightmares came. Achilles silently left the room at dawn – Patroclus deserved better than to wake up to the sight of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> The section beginning '"What happened to your hand?"' and ending 'shame if she pressed herself to lose it' includes Achilles speaking to a character who managed to have an abortion performed. It isn't gone into in depth, but Achilles clumsily tries to indicate he's progressive, whilst the woman in question suggests that she isn't, but did it out of necessity as the father would not have supported the child. Achilles draws comparisons between his mother and the woman, and it dawns on him that his mother wasn't born heartless, but might have armed herself against feeling due to trauma (as he sees the woman learning to).  
> **
> 
> Thank you for reading. That last section hurt to write. As always, comments make my day!
> 
> **NOTE: Hi! I'm so sorry, because I've been keeping such a good schedule with Feral and Stray, but updates might be REALLY slow. It's disappointing - I know - because we only have a couple of chapters left. Rest assured, though - this isn't writer's block, but writer-has-exams-and-neglected-their-studies-all-semester (I know exactly how this fic ends, and a lot of it is already written). I'm 100% that person who refreshes fics in a storm of anxiety hoping I can manifest their updates, so if you're me... Take a breath, and maybe just check in every Monday. I plan to have the fic done by the end of November at the latest. 
> 
> Thank you ❤🐑❤


	12. Summer: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long! Hopefully there are still a few readers around.
> 
> This chapter spiritually starts after Hector's goodbye. I wanted to include it, and struggled to find an adequate place.
> 
> Just a reminder of recent events in this fic (it's been a month, so I don't blame you if you have no idea what's going on in this fic)
> 
> \- Achilles shared intimate photos of Patroclus to Hector (on purpose, to embarrass Patroclus and hopefully break off their arrangement  
> \- Instead Hector enjoys the pictures and Patroclus feels pressured to have penetrative sex with him  
> \- Hector shows the photos (covering Patroclus's face in a half measure to keep his identity a secret) to others, including Frankie Ajax  
> \- Frankie steals two of the pictures and tells Tommy Agamemnon about Patroclus being queer  
> \- Agamemnon, Ajax and others are involved in jumping Patroclus. The give him one of the photos, and Agamemnon keeps the other  
> \- Achilles pieces everything together, but discovers Agamemnon suspects the person behind the camera in Patroclus's pictures is Achilles  
> \- To protect Achilles (and also himself), Patroclus blackmails Agamemnon to give him the picture  
> \- Patroclus decides to go back to Phthia, though Achilles encourages him to stay in Melbourne where he will be safer  
> \- Achilles seems to have backed off Patroclus, seemingly having taken some action regarding his mother, and telling Briseis that Patroclus is bisexual, and encouraging her to pursue him.

For almost a full minute, Hector simply sat at Patroclus’s desk, rigid and pensive. This was a difference between Hector and Achilles – Achilles was action, moving parts and chaotic thought. Hector was thoughtful. Or, he was until he wasn’t.

“I’m very sorry,” he eventually began. “You look terrible, Pat.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh. “Achilles got _you_ pretty good.”

Hector swiped a thumb over the dark swelling on his jaw and grinned. “I had it coming. From you, mind, not him – but I had it coming.” Hector dropped his grin and sighed. “I shouldn’t have shown those pictures to anyone. A bloody lousy thing to do. I wouldn’t want pictures of me like that getting around, and the most worthwhile thing I learned at mass is that you should treat others how you want to be treated, and I didn’t do that.”

“Thank you.”

Hector cracked a wry smile. “I didn’t say it yet – don’t let me off easy, Pat.” Hector sucked in a long breath and exhaled, his eyes locking onto Patroclus’s, ardently holding his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for showing the pictures, and I’m sorry for keeping them in the first place – I saw you were funny about it, and I knew better.” Hector nodded his head, almost as if bowed in prayer.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said, just the same as before. It was a sunny November day, and exam season was over for Achilles and Patroclus. Patroclus’s trunk was packed by his bed – they would be taking a car the following morning to the station, and then a coach back to Phthia. “And thank you for getting Machaon to tutor me. I passed, I reckon. Hardly flying colours, but that wasn’t on the cards this semester.”

“I am glad,” Hector said firmly. “Pelides stressed I shouldn’t see you, but it seemed cowardly not to at least apologise. I take it he retrieved the picture from Tommy, then?”

“I did, actually,” Patroclus said.

“Good for you,” Hector said, relaxing a little back into the chair as if released from some portion of his guilt. He was not to know that Patroclus’s pride at mending his predicament was vastly outweighed by his disgust at the means he had been driven to. “You describe Achilles one way, when we talk, but I never felt I’d met the Achilles of your stories – not on campus. But I think I caught a glimpse of him, with everything else that went on. Still a bastard, but an unstoppable force when it comes to you. Is there something there after all?”

“There’s something,” Patroclus conceded. “What, we’ll probably never know.”

“And I guess we’re done?” Hector asked, a sense of resignation etched into the set of his mouth.

“I couldn’t… yeah. Yeah, probably. I don’t blame you, but I do a bit. You know?”

Hector nodded and smiled a miserable smile. “I reckon that’s the right choice, Pat. But you know…” Hector grinned with some of his old playfulness. “My door’s always open for you. And I’ll still bother you about being my friend, if Pelides doesn’t break my face for it.”

Patroclus felt relieved at that, and Hector leaned in to kiss him just once, chastely on the lips goodbye.

* * *

Patroclus forgot to shut the gate on Achilles’s sixteenth birthday. Father had let them have a little champagne, and they had walked with Benny to Pocock Creek, and life had been good. Benny had lounged beneath the evening sun, and Achilles felt especially aware that the heart was a muscle, for it unclenched that night – at least for a while.

 _This is my favourite place,_ Patroclus had told him, cheeks warm with champagne. In a little over a week, Achilles would meet his mother in Melbourne for the Olympic Games, and not long after that Achilles would be cruel to him at Johnny’s birthday party – but this night was unspoiled. Patroclus had called the deck by Pocock Creek his favourite place, but places exist in context. What Achilles was certain Patroclus meant, and what he heard that night, was, _You are my favourite place._

 _It’s mine as well,_ Achilles had said, but he meant Patroclus. Pocock Creek might dry up and if Patroclus sat in the pit of the dusty basin, Achilles would want to be nowhere else in the world.

At some point, Achilles had pushed Patroclus into the creek (they weren’t so drunk that he worried for his friend), and Achilles had leapt in after him. The water was not yet warmed by summer, and it had been too cold to play, so after only a few minutes of laughter and splashing, the boys walked home sopping wet. And Patroclus had left the gate open.

Achilles knew this because he had sprinted to the kitchen and bossed Tilly to fetch them some towels, leaving Patroclus to lock up behind him. He knew this, because when he woke the following morning, Benny had run away.

Achilles had had a bad feeling, so he set off before Patroclus had descended the stairs. His feeling was shortly confirmed. Having wandered down to the bend of Heracles Road, Achilles didn’t have to walk far before he came to a pile of black and white and red stained fur.

Achilles had been given Benny at eight years old because Father had noticed he was nicer to animals than children, and imagined that somehow giving him an animal of his own would make him gentler to his peers. But other eight year olds couldn’t do many interesting tricks, and Benny could, and Benny loved Achilles without even knowing what he said or what he thought.

Standing by the side of the road Achilles felt a wave of grief – of sadness and anger and fear – lurch through him, but he stopped himself from shedding tears.

It was Patroclus’s fault.

It was Patroclus’s fault that Benny was dead, and for just a moment Achilles reached for spite – if Patroclus had just closed the damn gate! – but he felt himself go cold. Benny had been Patroclus’s predecessor. Patroclus understood what Achilles said and thought, and somehow loved him anyway. Patroclus had killed a boy on accident, and he woke himself screaming in the night years later. Achilles thought of his friend’s restless nights and faraway looks and tearstained face as Achilles had to help him figure out how to breathe again and decided that Patroclus didn’t need this on his conscience.

 _Benny’s dead._ Achilles had raced home to fetch a sack to put Benny’s body in, and Patroclus had been leaning against the kitchen bench, picking over a piece of toast.

_I… What?_

_I left the gate open,_ Achilles said miserably. _Last night. Remember I had a nightcap with Father and you went to bed? Well, I grabbed a flashlight and went for a walk after. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was drunk. Decided against it after fifteen minutes of staggering around. Benny’s body is by Heracles Road. I’m sorry._

Patroclus stared at him, piecing Achilles’s story together. It was an unlikely tale. Achilles couldn’t usually trick Patroclus quite so easily, but he could see Patroclus’s reluctance to quiz Achilles on something so awful.

 _Are you sure?_ was all he asked.

 _I am. I’m sorry,_ Achilles said again.

_No. No, of course not, Achilles. It’s not your fault. Of course not._

Achilles felt his stomach lurch again, and before he understood it was happening, Patroclus pulled him into an embrace and let him cry into his shoulder. It was for Benny, but it also wasn’t. Achilles understood that if Patroclus knew the truth, nothing could console him. If Patroclus knew, he would have fled Achilles’s comfort and that feeling he had felt that morning – that peculiar dread that had settled in Achilles’s gut when he saw the gate open – would have returned tenfold as he searched Mount Pelion for Patroclus.

It was something Chiron laboured – that they were equals with different strengths. _Achilles is quick, but Patroclus is careful. Achilles likes to argue, and Patroclus likes to investigate. Achilles likes to present, but Patroclus is better at listening._ It had seemed a given. Patroclus was his favourite person – his favourite place – and Achilles thought the world of him. Chiron hadn’t laboured so much that they had different weaknesses.

As Patroclus walked solemnly at his elbow down the road, Achilles heard the words – his own – in Chiron’s bass drawl, _Achilles is a monster, and Patroclus is broken._ Achilles felt he was at peace with that. Monsters were entrusted with guarding precious things, and Patroclus was precious to him. A monster could fend off guilt and keep him safe. Achilles could do that.

* * *

Amidst drawn out goodbyes, the impatient hoots of trains and the general hustle and bustle of the city, Briseis Antony produced a box wrapped in red and green marbled paper as they waited for the 8:54 train at Spencer Street Station.

“No, Brie,” Patroclus said, ducking his head. “I feel awful – I didn’t even think about Christmas.”

“I saw you liked it when we were shopping for Achilles’s… I like to do it, Pat. Really.”

Achilles watched them as he leaned against a pillar some metres away. It was a tie, then. Achilles’s own birthday had come and gone during exam season, and though he had anticipated spending it alone in his room but for a bottle of scotch (courtesy of his father) and hundreds of pages of readings (courtesy of Justice Dixon), he had been shocked to greet Patroclus at his door in the late afternoon.

_Happy Birthday._

Achilles had wavered a little, unsteady from having suckled the scotch. _No, Pat._

_I got you something._

_No,_ Achilles had whispered.

 _I got it before,_ Patroclus had said simply.

_Return it. I’m not… No, Pat. No…_

_I don’t want to,_ he said. Achilles wasn’t sure if he had imagined it, but he thought Patroclus might have spoken to him kindly. _I got it before, and I wasn’t sure… but I still wanted to give it to you anyway. It would be worse, if you rejected it._

Achilles had taken the small box and accompanying card. _Are you…?_

Achilles didn’t know what he was asking. Patroclus didn’t seem to either, and only shrugged tiredly.

The card read:

_Dear Achilles,_

_Happy Birthday. You are still my brother._

_Patroclus._

The tie was red as blood. Achilles could imagine Patroclus in a department store, tossing up between green for his eyes, or red for his complexion. Achilles had needed to drink a lot more scotch, and when Odysseus found him in the shared bathroom bowed over the toilet bowl, they both pretended he had been out celebrating with mates and not drinking alone.

At the station, Patroclus reluctantly accepted Briseis’s gift. “I’ll post you something from Phthia, but there’s not much for variety up there.”

“I don’t need you to return the favour.”

The thing about monsters is that they aren’t simply keeping their precious thing safe (something Achilles had failed to do at any rate); monsters keep their treasures for themselves, letting them rot away behind a guarded door. Monsters live with the dreadful, maddening knowledge that their precious thing – the thing they safeguard – would leave their side if only they let them. Achilles lived with that. Achilles could see a good life for Patroclus with Briseis, it he stepped away. He saw marriage and children and careers and love that didn’t have to hurt so much. Achilles didn’t need to protect Patroclus from Briseis.

“I’ll grab the bags,” Achilles called out over the loud sounds of the train station. He snapped up Patroclus’s trunk before he could make a fuss and threw them both a grin. “I’ll catch you on board, Pat. Briseis.” Achilles nodded his farewell and boarded the train, settling in for the long journey home.

Outside the window, he saw Briseis lean in and peck Patroclus on the cheek. From the window seat, Achilles could only see Patroclus from behind, but it was enough. He melted into her embrace. He could love her. Maybe he already did. If Achilles left his post, Briseis would charge in on a noble steed and have him, and that sounded like a happy enough ending to Achilles.

* * *

The first week in Phthia was hell. Patroclus was still banged up, and there wasn’t much to do about hiding it.

“Bambi, whatever’s happened to you?” Peleus had boomed with superficial alarm as Achilles and Patroclus exited the cab. Patroclus, who had kept his gaze pinned to the ground, looked uncertainly at Achilles.

“He was jumped,” Achilles provided. “By some guys. It’s been dealt with.”

Patroclus had stared a while at Mr Pelides, then, but there was no attempt made to get details of the who and why, and although it was for the better, Achilles was sure it left a bitter taste.

They returned to their old rooms. Achilles watched Patroclus through his hole in the wall. Most evenings, Achilles caught him undressing, twisting his bare flesh before the mirror, tracing the cut on his cheek with his eyes; the faded bruises that covered his body with his fingertips. Just sometimes, Patroclus would press forcefully against his wounds until he flinched from the pain. Achilles found himself flinching too – not in empathy for Patroclus’s pain, but because he felt in his hands that it was he who pressed into Patroclus’s bruises, as their distant maker.

The days floated by in silence but for pleasantries, more often than not provided by Achilles, who had grown to hate the sound of his own voice, but owed it to Patroclus to fill the quiet at mealtimes, especially when his father tried to coax them into conversation. It was unbearably cruel, Achilles felt, to make Patroclus fend for himself against Mr Pelides. The two of them had always had secrets, but now Patroclus was tied up in a web of lies that were necessary because of Achilles’s carelessness, and served primarily to save Achilles’s skin. When they were alone, Achilles usually let Patroclus have his peace. They both worked the farm most days – Patroclus for pocket money, Achilles ostensibly to pay off his ‘gambling debts’ (though Achilles very much suspected his father would slip him a generous bonus he didn’t deserve before uni went back) – and for the remainder of November, Achilles facilitated Patroclus’s avoidance of him. Achilles took the hint that Patroclus wasn’t ready to work with him, and made sure they were assigned to different paddocks. He didn’t let himself into Patroclus’s room uninvited, nor press him to take evening strolls with him along the trails of Mount Pelion. By December, however, it was getting to be too much.

“Who do you write?” Achilles asked one morning. There were days when they came down for breakfast and it was only the two of them (it was not uncommon for Father to wake up hungover and not emerge from the master bedroom all day). These days, the distance between them was most pronounced. It was unbearable – having Patroclus within reach and no one to see, but still not being able to have him.

Patroclus looked up from his breakfast and touched the envelope he had come downstairs with. Patroclus’s quiet was torture, but he didn’t keep silent when questioned by the Pelides men. “Johnny.”

Achilles felt an old jealousy flare within him, but he soothed it before it threw any heat. “I didn’t know you’d kept in touch.”

“We were friends,” Patroclus said.

“I know.” Achilles hesitated. He measured his words more carefully these days. “You only hadn’t mentioned it, about writing him.”

“He doesn’t write me back, much,” Patroclus admitted. He spoke cordially to a spot someplace behind Achilles. His thumb slid anxiously over the indentations of Johnny’s address on the back of the envelope. “It’s stupid, really. But I worry about him – especially in the army, being surrounded by blokes and guns. I think I just want him to know that he can talk to me if he wants.”

“I was never kind about Johnny,” Achilles said. “I wish he had it better.”

Patroclus grinned, returning Achilles’s gaze for the first time in days. “That’s an easy thing to say now he’s gone.”

“It is,” Achilles agreed. This was the most conversation they had had since returning to Phthia, and Achilles was at risk of ruining their progress, but they didn’t have time, otherwise. They had summer, and that was all. “Would you work the same field as me today? I won’t be a bother, and I can spot you better than the seasonals can.”

Just like that, Patroclus’s face fell blank. “I’m healed up, just about. I don’t need spotting really.”

“You wanted to come back to Phthia,” Achilles said.

Patroclus winced. “I did.”

“When I came home over break – over winter, that is – I… I imagined you’d be here. Which is beyond stupid – obviously I knew you were going skiing… But I realised that was what I expected because I felt this… this strange disappointment when I returned and found you weren’t here. Being home without you wasn’t home.” Achilles forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on Patroclus. “Do you feel the opposite way? Disappointed to find me present?”

“It’s difficult,” Patroclus murmured.

“I offered to keep away, but you said –”

“It’s impossible,” Patroclus said with an edge to his voice. “When I look at you, I still feel…” Patroclus flinched. “But when you’re out of sight, I look _for_ you. I can’t…”

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…_

Achilles remembered how Patroclus had pleaded the words the night he got the picture back from Tommy – delirious and desperate – and he felt worse for bringing it up.

“I don’t know what it means to forgive you, Achilles,” Patroclus said very quietly. “As a man… As a person, I don’t know what it means if I…”

“Don’t. Don’t forgive me –”

“When you are angry… It fuels you, the fire – you scorch the earth, burn it all down. I am still… still so… But it only burns _me_.” Patroclus frowned. “I want to put it out – smother it.” Patroclus laughed horribly. “Beat me. Break me. Choke out the flame. Make me weak enough that I don’t have to bear it anymore.”

Achilles felt a wave of nausea roll through him. “Never. Never, I won’t…”

Patroclus lifted his gaze once more, his brown eyes haunted. “When Tommy had me out on the footy oval –”

“Please –”

“ – I was so relieved when I passed out. It meant I didn’t have to fight anymore.”

Was this what he had wanted? Achilles had kicked and kicked and _kicked_ Patroclus over years and this – _this_ – was surely the aim. To break him. No – for Patroclus to _beg_ to be broken. And now that he begged, Achilles would deny him that too.

“Pat, I…”

Heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, and a moment later the Pelides patriarch made his way into the dining room still in his dressing gown.

“What were you boys up to, that you’ve gone so quiet all of a sudden?” asked Achilles’s father.

Achilles almost spun a quick lie, but Patroclus got in first. “I was only saying that I might work with Achilles, today. If that’s alright with you, of course, Sir.”

Mr Pelides looked between the boys and shrugged. “As you like, Bambi.”

* * *

Weeks were able to pass this way – increased proximity and little else. The physical nearness was something, Achilles supposed, and some days were better than others. There were moments of cordiality almost resembling affection – a shared grin at a seasonal’s expense, a furtive look when Achilles tried to bite off more than he could chew – but Achilles could see how it burned Patroclus.

Christmas day was a peculiar performance of Christmases past – Achilles blared holiday records through the house, and Tilly made a roast for the Pelides household for luncheon (dinner would be sandwiches or something otherwise foraged as Tilly took Christmas dinner with her own family). Mr Pelides drank himself tired and turned in early – and usually at this point Achilles would steal Patroclus to Mount Pelion and coerce him into a plunge at Pocock Creek. This year, as Achilles’s father stumbled off to bed in the late afternoon, the two young men only exchanged a look across the table.

“I bought you something,” Achilles ventured. He picked absently at his second helping of Tilly’s potatoes, before shrugging. “It’s nothing much.”

“I did too. Just from in town. I ought to have thought ahead.”

“No. No, I’m grateful that you think of me at all,” Achilles said quietly. They finished their meal in silence, and an hour later, when they retired upstairs, Patroclus knocked at Achilles’s door and gave him a pair of festive socks and a card (and Achilles presented him a pair of swim trunks and some chocolates). The card read –

_Dear Achilles,_

_Merry Christmas._

_Thank you for looking out for me._

_Patroclus_

Their cards were never epics, but usually there was a joke or two – some making light of the year that was. But sparseness was to be expected, this year. Or, Achilles supposed, every year from now on. Things were never going to go back to ‘normal’ because this was normal now.

“I didn’t write you a card,” Achilles said dully.

“I don’t mind.”

_Thank you for looking out for me…_

“Dear Patroclus,” Achilles recited flatly. “Merry Christmas. Sorry for fucking up your second semester. Hope your ribs are feeling better! Achilles.”

Patroclus blinked back at him. “I didn’t do that badly on the exams, in the end.”

Achilles laughed. “No thanks to me.”

“I’m at uni thanks to you.”

Achilles snorted and leaned back against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “You were going to work a year. You were going to work, and then you’d’ve come up to Melbourne anyway – independent. If I hadn’t dragged you up with me… you would’ve been just fine, Pat. I didn’t save you – I saved me.”

Patroclus shrugged. “You pushed for me to go with you to Melbourne because you wanted me around.”

It wasn’t a question, but Achilles answered anyway – “Yes.”

The side of Patroclus’s mouth tugged up into a painful expression. “I’ve never had much of that, Achilles.”

“I would take it all back,” Achilles said abruptly, pinning Patroclus with his gaze. “Not just the mistakes – not just last semester. I wish I had’ve left you alone.”

“You regret knowing me?” Patroclus asked, bemused.

“I would give anything to undo it. How this feels.” Achilles reached for Patroclus’s hand, and when he didn’t pull away, Achilles thumbed over the scar that spanned the centre of Patroclus’s palm as he had done dozens of times before. “I was always afraid this would heal,” Achilles murmured, almost to himself. “That it would heal only to spite me – to clean the slate, wash me away. I don’t suppose that’s possible, but I was scared it would… but now – now I would steal the scar from your hand and bear it on my face if it would… if it would release you.”

“You were afraid it would heal?” Patroclus asked faintly.

Achilles nodded, still holding Patroclus’s hand in his.

“I was afraid you would regret it – the pain and the scars and our kinship,” Patroclus mumbled. “That’s why I was reluctant to… My fear was the more justified, I suppose.” Patroclus made to withdraw his hand, but Achilles tightened his grip.

“Dear Patroclus,” Achilles said in a low voice. “Merry Christmas. You’re the best man I know. You’re too good for Phthia and too good for me. Achilles.”

“I don’t regret knowing you.” Patroclus’s face was pinched as if in pain, and he stared at the place where Achilles held him. “Do you – do you really…?”

“Knowing you made me better, hard as it is to believe. It made me feel better, learn better and be better. Can you honestly say I’ve done the same for you?”

“Yes.”

The instantaneity of Patroclus’s answer stunned Achilles for a moment, but he was quick to recover. “You’ll be better off without me, Pat.”

Patroclus once again tugged at his hand, and this time Achilles relinquished his grip. “You’ve given me swim shorts,” Patroclus said slowly. “Were you thinking we might swing by Pocock Creek?”

He chanced a glance at Achilles, and Achilles saw it – effort and hope, a small gesture of forgiveness and giving in.

“No,” Achilles said, the word a boulder on his tongue. “No, I think we’d better not, Pat. All the food has made me drowsy.”

Achilles might have turned his back and fled to his room, but he found himself stuck to the spot as Patroclus’s face twisted in hurt. “Your regret… You would bear my pact scar on your face?” He laughed – a choked, pained sound. He traced his fingers over the place where Agamemnon’s fists or boot (Patroclus could not recall which) had split open his cheek. “You are etched into my face,” he snapped. “The palm of my hand, my bones. My mind, my…” Patroclus’s right hand clutched his chest – _My heart_. “If I go to the creek, will you not come? Will you leave me alone to it?”

Achilles tried to resist it, but Patroclus – his favourite place, his most precious thing – was trying so hard. A part of Achilles could not help but crave Patroclus’s forgiveness and love, but the idea of receiving them made Achilles feel sick. Achilles eyed Patroclus warily – drank in his taut expression – and understood that to reject him would be the more unkind.

“No. No, I would come.”

Patroclus exhaled a long sigh of relief, and looked ashamed – though, Achilles imagined, not so ashamed as if he had refused him. If they only had the summer, perhaps Achilles could be a brother to Patroclus for the first time in a long time. He could allow himself that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I think we have 1-2 more chapters, then maybe an epilogue. Not long now!
> 
> As always, comments make my week <3


	13. Summer: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the wait!
> 
> A Christmas gift! A Christmas burden? This chapter is a lot.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE - a few people have mentioned that the notification for Summer: Part 1 never went out, so possibly some of you just got notified for this chapter and not the last one. If last you remember Achilles and Patroclus were still in Melbourne, double check if you read last chapter before reading this one!

What does it mean to forgive Achilles Pelides?

That was the question that faced Patroclus as they entered 1960. A pinprick in his brain which, if paid too much attention, split his head in two. It would, Patroclus was certain, be easier if Achilles sought out his forgiveness – Achilles had a way of wearing him down with charm and persistence – but Achilles did not angle for forgiveness. Alongside that pesky pinprick in his head, Patroclus felt the first tickles of unease in this stomach; _He does not even want it._

There was a peace about Achilles, these days. Not to be mistaken for contentedness, Achilles moved about the farm as if everything was as it was meant to be (not how he might like it, but rather how the fates saw fit). For as long as Patroclus had known him, there had been a ravenousness about Achilles – a hunger, a desire for more. This – whatever _this_ was – was an anomaly.

Achilles sat on the steps of the back veranda, peeling his boots from his feet. By the end of the day, Achilles’s hair swooped down in sweat-drenched tangles that Patroclus often felt the urge to push back off his face. In prior years, this was when Achilles was most boisterous – cussing out the seasonals, recounting some event that was always funnier in Achilles’s retelling than when it transpired before Patroclus’s own eyes – but now, as green eyes met brown, Achilles only ever offered a small smile and a nod, and some arbitrary phrase to settle the silence.

_That was a good day._

_Got everything done, just about._

_Shame about the rain._

“Dinner’ll be soon. I heard it was lamb cutlets.”

Patroclus almost screamed.

He felt stupid – more so than usual. When Patroclus thought of what Achilles had done – how careless and cruel he had been – he felt the sort of contempt and loathing that hollows out your chest and clings to the back of your throat. This fury ought to have kept him in Melbourne when Achilles offered him reprieve – he should have taken Briseis up on her invitation to stay with her family for the summer – but he wanted Achilles to take away the pain. He wanted Achilles to talk him around, or butt heads with him, or damned well break him – but Achilles had only taken a gentlemanly step back.

“Whatever can be said for Melbourne, the food at Trinity loses out to Tilly’s cooking,” Achilles remarked idly.

“Your father’s club did a decent steak,” Patroclus murmured. “Next time, I’ll treat.”

Achilles glanced up at him, squinting into the half set sun. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe, Pat.”

Patroclus remembered meeting Achilles at twelve. He had been wretched and bossy and hadn’t hid his loneliness even half so well as he thought he had. He had needed a friend – a brother, a companion – and Patroclus had been that; Patroclus had loved him as well as he knew how. Achilles had needed and wanted him, and that was something Patroclus had never had before. But of course, Achilles would unpick it all – the scar, their kinship, his quiet kindnesses and acts of warmth just as much as his unspeakable torments.

 _You would have died for your father’s approval,_ sneered a voice in Patroclus’s head. _What wouldn’t you do to keep Achilles?_

Again, Patroclus winced as his mind wandered aimlessly toward the impossible knot that was his relationship with Achilles. Achilles didn’t touch him, these days. Their touches had never been intimate per se, but, Patroclus mused, everything they shared was tinged by their mutual, unnamed craving. Of course, Achilles’s touch would burn Patroclus – but then, each day Achilles kept his distance, the ache in Patroclus’s chest grew more unbearable. Something had to give.

Time. As Patroclus scrubbed away the day’s grime in the downstairs shower, he told himself that this too could be healed by time – the sting of Achilles’s betrayal would fade, and gradually, their relationship would mend to something deformed and ugly, but that didn’t hurt so much. As Patroclus trailed Achilles downstairs to dinner that night, he thought maybe they might run errands in town that Saturday. It was something, and the thought dulled his headache just a little.

* * *

Just the three of them at the table that night, it wasn’t clear why Tilly had set out the good wine and lit the candles until Mr Pelides’s deep voice boomed across the dining table.

“Your mother’s connections must have come good – a good, thick envelope from Cambridge is in the study on the bureau. Shame you won’t get credit for your year in Melbourne, but overall, it’s a good thing, I think,” Achilles’s father said over roast lamb cutlets. Noticing the table freeze, Mr Pelides looked perfunctorily between his son and his ward and continued. “Ah. Bambi didn’t know. But now he does.”

Achilles glanced up at Patroclus from across the table. His shoulders had tensed, his posture suddenly rigid, but his eyes didn’t stray from his plate.

“I might have liked to talk it over with him myself, Father,” Achilles murmured, a gentle admonishment. “And we’ve not even opened the acceptance.”

“But it _is_ an acceptance,” Achilles’s father went on. “And no doubt Bambi’s pleased for you.”

Patroclus swallowed and lifted his gaze first to Mr Pelides, then to Achilles. “I… Congratulations, Achilles,” he said in a small voice. “I didn’t even know you’d applied.”

“Father –”

“Last time, with Oxford, Achilles was equally cagey. I don’t even know if he told you about the acceptance, that time?” Mr Pelides asked, mouth half full of lamb.

Patroclus pinned his eyes to the table and shrugged weakly. “No. No, he never told me. I thought…”

“Well, that was the case. Got into Oxford then schemed the two of you off to Melbourne. Of course, it was all about getting you to medical school – very noble of him, really,” Mr Pelides went on. It wasn’t a question, but he watched Patroclus in silence in wait of a response.

“Yes. I’m sorry – I promise I didn’t ask him to. I’ve been too great of an expense,” Patroclus murmured hastily.

“Father, that’s unfair,” Achilles objected.

“I only didn’t want a repeat of last year – you applying, getting in, then throwing it away over Bambi. With your mother agreeing to take on a good deal of your costs abroad, I’ll keep paying for Bambi to study in Melbourne.” Achilles’s father took another bite of lamb, seemingly unphased by the scene before him – both young men having lost their appetite, his son flustered, desperately trying to catch his ward’s gaze. “Of course you’ll miss him, but I don’t want you missing enrolment only for that. It’s not worth the postage, my boy – all the applications and correspondence add up. Aren’t you happy for him, Bambi?”

Patroclus blinked, a deer in the headlights. “I… I… Of course. Well done, Achilles.” Patroclus’s fingers trembled and, as if to still them, he made to grasp the stem of his wine glass only to knock it, and the remainder of his drink, onto the table. “Damnit!” Patroclus swore, standing quickly to mop some of it up with his napkin. “Sorry,” he whispered shakily, gripping the table’s edge hard with his left hand as he tried hopelessly to soak up the red wine with a white cloth.

Achilles stood up and swiftly rounded the table to catch Patroclus’s arm. “Stop, Pat. I’ll go get someone to clean up. We’ll talk in my room, alright?” Achilles squeezed Patroclus’s wrist. “I’ll grab Tilly. I’ll see you upstairs?”

Patroclus nodded jerkily without meeting Achilles’s eye. “I’m sorry, Mr Pelides,” he supplied quickly. “Achilles.” Patroclus ducked his head and left as Achilles called for the cook.

* * *

“This isn’t my room.”

Patroclus sat on the decking by Pocock Creek, his legs dangling in the water. The sun was almost fully set, but there was no sign of a chill in the air. Patroclus had heard from one of the farm hands that the Barossa Reservoir in South Australia was a Whispering Gallery – one person might hear another whisper from a hundred and forty feet away because of the acoustics of the dam. Pocock Creek had no such parabolic effect, but it was a keeper of memories. This was where Achilles had produced a knife and named them kin. This was where they had laughed and played. This was where Achilles would annihilate him.

“No,” Patroclus murmured. “But you knew to find me.”

Achilles sat beside Patroclus and rolled up his pant legs so he might swing his feet into the creek’s murky waters.

“It was bloody of Father to do that at dinner,” Achilles began. “That wasn’t how I was going to tell you –”

“ _Were_ you going to tell me?” Patroclus asked quietly. “I knew you’d put in for Oxford, back then. You didn’t even mention Cambridge this time round.”

“There would have been a right time.”

Of course, this was one of Chiron’s half answers. Sometimes, even as they worked the farm together, Achilles imagined how he would break the news to Patroclus. He fiddled about with structuring each turn of phrase in his mind. Law is all about condensing complex, abstract notions or fairness and justice and the nature of man into words – shoehorning ideas into neat paragraphs. Achilles was sure if he sat down and put his mind to it, he could find the words to express why he needed to leave Patroclus, and why it was best for him, and that he should be relieved to see him go.

“Why?”

“I wrote Mother. Cambridge is closer to where her family is, and what with me ignoring Oxford’s acceptance last year, I worried there might be a black mark by my name. Plus, Mother _does_ know someone at Cambridge, though I don’t know how much that really –”

“Why are you leaving?” Patroclus asked, his voice unsteady, almost drowned out by the croaks and chirps and snickers of Pocock Creek’s other inhabitants.

Achilles, who still had not found his words, glanced down at the water. “After… after what happened to you… You know I’m sorry. I’m sorry for last summer. I’m sorry for taking the pictures. I’m sorry for giving them to Hector. I’m sorry you got the shit kicked out of you. And I am sorry for the way my father belittled you at dinner just now. But I am beyond forgiveness, Patroclus. I have been for a while, and I think it might be best if I left. So I wrote to Mother, and…” Achilles shrugged, tilting his chin up to squint into the sky. “And she’ll have me.”

Patroclus glanced up, his face perfectly impassive. “What if I asked you not to?”

“It’s broken.”

“Going to England from the colonies as penance? Ironic. Don’t,” Patroclus said lifelessly. “I forgive you. I’m being childish. Things can be as they were. You don’t have to go.”

“I think I do, Pat.” Achilles touched Patroclus’s hand. “The truth is that it’s always been broken. Always. I can’t keep doing this to you. Briseis asked me if you would be safe in Phthia with me this summer. She meant to ask if I’d hurt you for being queer, and the answer should very obviously be ‘no’, but it isn’t. It never has been, Patroclus.”

Patroclus swallowed the lump in his throat. “So, what – you’ll come back in four years a changed man?”

Achilles winced. When he spoke, his voice was low and rehearsed, as if he had practiced this moment for weeks – which, Patroclus realised, he probably had. This part, Achilles knew by heart. “Mother was quite excited about a girl. Minor nobility, but with a name and title, and she would have me even being what I am. It’s not the life I wanted, but… but it’s something. More than I deserve. But I wouldn’t… come back, I don’t think.”

Patroclus had heard of children drowning in still water only because they could not keep themselves afloat. That was what Patroclus thought of, those early days in Phthia. Achilles would keep him endlessly busy with hikes and racing and climbing – they were eternally out of breath from laughter or exertion – but when they swam, Patroclus couldn’t help but think of dying. And when he ducked beneath water and imagined drowning, it was Achilles who dragged him back to the surface, his young brow knit in confusion.

At some point Patroclus had stopped. He didn’t really want die – Patroclus didn’t know enough about Freud or medicine or people to understand it. It was his father and the noose. It was people back in Opus spitting at him in the street. It was the boy’s head splitting open – a wrong he would never right. It was a predisposition – a poor constitution, stupidity, childishness. He would never have done it, probably.

_Whattaya doin’, Pat?_

A thirteen year old Achilles had yanked him up so his head breached the surface of the water.

 _Holding my breath_ , Patroclus had replied.

_Well, maybe don’t do that._

On some level, Achilles had known. It wasn’t something they talked about, but a young Achilles knew he didn’t like his friend holding his breath in the creek. He didn’t like that Patroclus had nightmares. He didn’t like Patroclus’s silences. When they were fifteen, he didn’t like the way Patroclus froze in front of the snake. At nineteen, he hated talking about that night, with Tommy and the others – the way Patroclus spoke about it, like it was a job unfinished.

Patroclus let Achilles save him. He let him hurt him. Patroclus always ended up letting Achilles have whatever he wanted, in the end.

Before he could think better, Patroclus braced to push himself into the creek, but Achilles’s hand found his wrist in a second, and it _burned_ – it burned to be touched by Achilles, for all he had done, but worse still was the heat of the shame that flooded Patroclus for relishing the point of contact. “No, Patroclus,” Achilles said hurriedly. “We have the whole summer to swim.”

It should be easy, to let Achilles go – one last ‘let’. Patroclus had let Achilles hold him down on a field and come on his face. He had let Achilles inside him up to his wrist. He let him take photos, let him torment him, humiliate him. One last ‘let’ and it would be over. His life as he knew it would be over. He had been going to hang himself from an ancient gumtree, before Achilles. Achilles had saved him as surely as Chiron had. If Achilles left, the boy with the rope would be dead, and Patroclus might be brand new, then. His worst self and his best self hanged, kookaburras laughing. But was this only because he wouldn’t say it – those words Achilles demanded?

What a stupid thing, to die for words.

“I would have kissed you in the Ford,” Patroclus mumbled. “If you kissed me… I would have done anything you wanted, Achilles.”

“Patroclus…”

“Of course I love you,” Patroclus whispered to the depths of the creek – his gallery of memories. “Of course I do.”

“No, no. You don’t have to… Patroclus, I wasn’t asking for that,” Achilles insisted.

Patroclus blinked. The words hadn’t worked. He had long been certain they would herald bliss or wrath, but Pandora’s box was empty. It was possible he had waited too long, and whatever part of Achilles demanded his devoted affection had lost its appetite as he had long known it would. Or perhaps, Patroclus thought dully, the spell of Achilles’s intrigue broke the moment his feelings were returned. “I can be convenient,” he mumbled. “I would be convenient. Anytime. Anything.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t go.”

“What I’ve done –”

“Imagine enduring it all,” Patroclus said hoarsely. Tears swam in his eyes and he felt hot and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. “Imagine letting you do the things you did… only to be discarded for…” Patroclus made to launch himself into the water, but Achilles was too quick. He had Patroclus pinned down on his back without a second thought, held firm between the rough deck and Achilles. He looked up helplessly. “Don’t make me beg,” Patroclus pleaded. “Everything. All of it. There’s… there’s the shame of it. The shame that lives in it – when you–”

“Don’t,” Achilles murmured. Patroclus’s face seized in agony, and Achilles shook his head. “You don’t have to recount it. I know. I know what I’ve done. Please take a couple of breaths. I’m right here.”

Patroclus took a deep breath and held it until he felt like he was going to pass out. “There’s the shame that lives in it, but there’s also the shame that comes of forgiving you – of letting you do it and loving you still, and I am so ashamed, Achilles.”

“I’ve broken it. I know it was me. I –”

“ _You_ broke it. And I’ve been trying to fix it – I’m trying, Achilles.” Patroclus hid his face in his hands and scrunched his eyes closed. The world was chaos – his body betraying him as his heartrate soared and his breaths came as gasps and the tears needled their way passed his eyelids – but one thing was suddenly clear. “I forgive you.”

“You can’t,” Achilles begged.

“I have to,” Patroclus croaked. He pulled his hands from his face and bared himself to Achilles’s gaze. He looked wretched – Patroclus knew that. His cheeks and eyes were red and wet, the edges of his mouth pulled painfully tight across his face. “I can. I will – I _will_ , Achilles.”

They were silent for a long time, but for their breaths – a long, tired exhale from Achilles, opposite the shallow gasps of Patroclus. “It’s unforgiveable, Patroclus.”

“Being without you is unbearable,” Patroclus whispered. “If it comes to forgiving the unforgiveable or bearing the unbearable…” Patroclus felt the pad of Achilles’s thumb glide over his cheek bone, wiping away his tears. “I have to forgive you, because otherwise, you’ll leave me.” His voice broke painfully as his red eyes searched Achilles’s face. Achilles liked Patroclus when he was sick and vulnerable, but Patroclus felt in that moment like something unsavoury dropped at Achilles’s feet – a pitiful, mangled mouse still twitching that might be stepped on so as to be put out of its misery. “After everything we… Please. Don’t leave me, Achilles. Don’t leave me.”

He hid his face in his hands and sobbed, and this – _this_ – was the worst thing Achilles had ever done to him.

“I…” Achilles had broken him. Unconditional surrender at last. Patroclus had asked him to break him, before – to hurt him and see how he hurt him and know what it was to feel sorry. It would have been the more merciful to punch him, maybe, than this. “I love you too, you know. You know, don’t you? Always have. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t leave,” Patroclus said almost soundlessly.

“I won’t. I’ll be wherever you need me to be. I won’t go.” He pulled Patroclus close to him, felt Patroclus relax into his chest, as if from a nightmare. His breathing began to soothe, after a time, and he pressed a timid kiss into Achilles’s neck which sparked through his body like electricity. “Patroclus…” Achilles shivered, clinging to the last of his restraint. “Patroclus…”

Patroclus kissed his mouth, and it was warm and soft and wet and desperate and _this_. This was forgiveness and surrender and victory and loss and absence and trauma and love, and it was more than Achilles deserved. In each other’s arms at dusk by the raucous Pocock Creek, they were each of them lucky, perhaps, that Achilles Pelides was selfish, and devoured it all eagerly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the last chapter - there is more to deal with, but if I combined it all, it would have been an unwieldy length.
> 
> I had a lot of this chapter written from the start. I'm really interested to hear what you think of this. For me, it was one of the most heartwrenching things to write.
> 
> On another note, Merry Christmas, if you do Christmas (otherwise, happy holidays/Friday).


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